Murphy's Law
by rabid squirrel
Summary: Alternative version of Season 7. Just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, Armageddon rears its ugly head. Absolutely No Spuffyness...ultimately BX. Chapter 24 uploaded yes, I'm still alive!
1. The Good, the Bad, and the Fugly

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaimer:_ If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction? Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_ Follow-up to the travesty that was season 6. Answers questions such as: Why Spike is able to hit Buffy; why did Xander really leave Anya at the alter; where does Whistler get his wardrobe; and just what really is in a hot dog. (Just kidding about the hot dog – nobody knows what they hell they put in those)

_Spoilers:_ Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects. Also, this may be a crossover at some point, though I make no guarantees.

_Rating: _R, for violence, strong language, sexual content, and the untimely demise of cute little puppies and bunny rabbits.

_Dedication_: To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.

_Note 1:_ This fic will be primarily action/drama oriented, with just a smidgeon of social introspection thrown in for flavor. Will also at least hint at being a B/X and/or X/W shipper. I don't write romance folks, so probably no smut (well, not much), unless the Gods intervene, at which point I'm powerless to resist. Also, I'm a fanfic virgin…so please be gentle!

_Note 2:_ To any B/S fans who may endeavor to read this story: Fully expect Spike to die a painful death. Let's face it, he stopped being even mildly cool after season 4, and I fully intend to put him out of his misery and into the nearest ashtray.

_Note 3_: I apologize for any abuse of the Latin language. I haven't used it since high school, most of which I spent in a drunken stupor.

_Note 4_: All text appearing in italics reflects a character's thoughts. All text appearing in the Penthouse Forum reflects my thoughts.

_Feedback:_ Constructive criticism and positive feedback are welcome. I also accept flames; I use them to light my cigarettes.

And now, the feature presentation….

**Present Day**

**Outside Edinburgh Scotland**

For over 550 years, the temple had stood relatively undisturbed, defiled only during the Reformation, a century later while under occupation by forces under Cromwell, and again in the year 1688, when it was ransacked by anti-Papist forces critical of its décor and vestments. 

Today it would be violated once more, if for more altruistic purposes.

Out of the swirling fog in the still Scottish night strode a lone figure, clad entirely in black, gliding swiftly and purposely towards the ancient wooden door at the entrance to the nave. He covered the distance in silence, leaving nary a footprint nor overturned stone in his wake. Pausing only momentarily to gaze upwards at the intricate circular window adorning the outer wall above the entrance, he continued on inside, a seemingly wistful grin adorning his otherwise stoic visage.

"Home sweet home."

Venturing into the chapel, the enigmatic figure took a moment to appreciate the awesome beauty of his surroundings. Endless carvings and statuary graced the ceiling and walls, depicting various scenes from the Bible, as well as pre-Christian, Celtic, Arabic, and other lesser "mythologies". He was not here to worship, however, nor to appreciate the stunning aesthetics of the historic chapel. He was here for a singular purpose, and nothing could be allowed to prevent its successful completion.

Striding forward, he continued on towards the alter, a magnificent edifice constructed under the auspices of the last Prince of Orkney so many years before. The man, if such a creature could indeed be could be called that, stopped short of the alter, for that was not his target. Instead, he walked slowly towards a distinctive stone pillar, a column adorned with intricate carvings set upon coiling spirals twisting down the length of the pillar. 

This particular pillar had long ago been dubbed the "Apprentice Pillar" by locals, whose legends held that the structure had been crafted by an apprentice craftsman in the absence of the master mason, who, upon observing the sheer beauty of the pillar, had murdered his protégé in a fit of jealousy. Whatever its origin, thousands of people have since made the pilgrimage to gaze upon it, and to theorize what magnificent secrets it concealed. For this pillar – as well as the structure which housed it - was unlike any other. 

Founded in the year 1446 by Sir William St. Clair, the chapel proper served as the spiritual home of the Knights Templar, the infamous, if somewhat misunderstood order of warrior noblemen formed in the closing years of the 11th century. Legend held that the Knights, created under the auspices of the Pope and christened after the Temple of Solomon, were tasked with procuring certain items of vast knowledge and power from the Temple of Jerusalem during the Crusades. Speculation that the Knights were to some degree successful was fueled by their sudden accumulation of wealth and power following their return from Jerusalem. However, no one outside of the order had ever known just how successful they had been. But that, like many other things, was about to change.

Reaching the pillar, the apparition in black proceeded to lay his hands upon its double-helix shaped spirals. Kneeling down, he uttered a simple phrase, one spoken many times before in this ancient church, but never before by a creature such as he: 

"In Nomine Patria, et Filia, et Spiritus Sanctus." 

Even as the words rolled off his lips, the chapel underwent a profound change. A static charge permeated the atmosphere, the very air crackling with a preternatural energy not seen by man for over 2000 years. A low rumble could be felt emanating from deep within the earth, reaching up to shake the very foundations of the temple, as well as the pillar within. The dim light filtering in thru the multitude of stained-glass windows took on a bright blue hue, increasing in radiance until its magnitude would have blinded a mere mortal. And, just as it seemed the building was in imminent danger of collapse, the rumbling ceased, and the night became still once more.

The chapel itself remained relatively undamaged, though the same could not be said of the Apprentice pillar. It now lay in pieces at the feet of the unknown interloper, though he took little notice. His attention was riveted to the ancient artifact lying within the shattered remains of the pillar. A small wooden chalice, cracked and shriveled with the ravages of time, lay miraculously intact atop a slab of broken rock. Unassuming in appearance, this cup had once belonged to a carpenter, albeit one who had not wielded the tools of his trade in over 2 millennia.

Not one to be easily awed, the dark figure hesitated, though only briefly, before collecting his bounty. He bent down, carefully retrieving the wooden treasure and placing it gently into the foam-lined case he had carried within his robe. Rising again to his feet, he turned back in the direction of the door he had entered only minutes before, and proceeded to make his exit, the world around him impervious to what had just transpired. But the apparition in black knew. He knew that with this one act, he had set in motion a chain of events that would forever change the world. And that, he surmised, was not at all a bad night's work.

Glancing back over his shoulder, he ventured one last look at the chapel, saying to no one in particular, "Next stop, Sunnydale".

Sunnydale California  
The next day

__

There are those days when everything just seems to fall into place; When the planets align perfectly, the birds are chirping, the sun's shining brightly, and absolutely nothing can go wrong. 

This was definitely not one of those days.

Not for the first time in his 21 year existence, Alexander Lavelle Harris wondered how in the hell his life had ever gotten this complicated. After all, he was the zeppo, the sidekick with the biting sarcasm and witty one-liners. He was the normal one in a decidedly abnormal group. And yet somehow, he had once again managed to help save the world. It wasn't like he had meant to. He was only doing what came naturally – looking after his friends. It was just that by doing the latter, namely saving Willow from herself, that he managed to save them all in the process.

Of course, saving the world was the easy part -- it always was. Dealing with the aftermath was the wild card. It was easy enough to forgive Willow for what she had done. She was, after all, wracked with grief over Tara's murder, and as the adage goes, revenge is a powerful motivator. He and Buffy had repeatedly tried to impress upon Willow their forgiveness, but she would have none of it. How could she accept their forgiveness if she couldn't forgive herself? Resigning himself to that fact, Xander once again steeled his nerves and knocked gently on his bedroom door, repeating what had become for him a daily ritual.

"Hey Wills, mind if I come in?"

Receiving only a muffled response in reply, Xander quietly opened the door and poked his head inside, cursing silently to himself at the sight before him. Willow lie curled up in a fetal position on the bed, occupying much the same position as she had for the past four weeks. The window shades were drawn, a sliver of late afternoon sun filtering in thru the bottom of the window panes. The irony was not lost on Xander; The darkness of the room perfectly complimented Willow's present state of mind.

"I thought you might be hungry, so I picked up some Chinese on the way home. You want?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Come on Will, it's not every day you get to feast on General Kim's Kung Pao Chicken and egg rolls. OK, maybe every Tuesday, but definitely not every day." Eliciting no response with his feeble attempt at humor, Xander decided it was time to pursue another course of action. Turning on the light, he proceeded to cross the room, and sat down on the bed opposite the petite redhead. He had put this off for long enough.

"You know Will, it's been a month, and we haven't really discussed it. I-I understand that it's hard for you to talk about it, and I won't pretend that I know what you're going through, but I want you to know that when you're ready I'll be here."

Still getting no reaction from his friend, Xander took a more direct approach. Cupping Willow's head between his hands, he gently lifted her chin to look her in the eyes. _Her eyes_ -- _Willow's eyes_. More than anything, it had been the look in her beautiful blue eyes that alarmed Xander the most. When he gazed into them now, he saw only defeat, not the boundless spark of life that was decidedly and uniquely Willow-esque. Gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, he tried once more. 

"Willow, I need you. We all need you. I liked Tara a lot. I loved her, because she made you happy, and that made me happy. If I could take away your pain, I would. But I can't -- no one can. It hurts because she was a part of you, and she always will be. Death doesn't change that. If it didn't hurt so much, If it didn't feel like your heart and soul had been torn out of you, then maybe you would know some kind of peace. But then all of it would have meant nothing. If there's one thing I've learned Will, it's this: Pain and love -- they go hand in hand It's the price we pay for loving someone. It's cruel and it sucks and it's not fair, but that's the way it is."

By now the tears were streaming down Willow's cheeks, her eyes blood red. "B…But what I did. I killed someone. I took a human life. I tried to kill you and Buffy and Dawn and Giles, and I, I…."

Pulling Willow into his arms, Xander cut her off before she could finish. "But nothing, Wills. All of that, everything you did, it doesn't matter. We've been there and done that. You're not the first one of us to fuck up. We're not perfect. We forgave Angel for what he did to Ms. Calendar. We forgave Faith for everything she's done. We forgave Buffy when she tried to kill us, and we forgive you. You've taken a human life, Willow, but you had your reasons. Warren killed Tara. He murdered her. She never did anything to him. She never hurt anybody. She died because she chose to help us, because she was in the right place at the wrong time. Maybe I can't condone what you did to Warren, but I'm not going to shed any tears over his death. He willingly took two human lives, and he almost killed Buffy. You'll have to live with what you did, but you won't have to do it alone. I promised you I'd never leave you Willow, and I won't. You're stuck with me, at least for another forty or fifty years."

Willow still wasn't entirely convinced. Trembling in his arms, she cried, "I didn't just try to kill you, Xander, I tried to destroy the world, and I felt nothing. I was going to kill six billion people, and I didn't care. How can you sit here and say that it's going to be OK? How can I look at you knowing what I did; How can I face the others?"

For the first time since Tara's death, Xander saw something in Willow's eyes, something other than despair. He saw hope. And that was all he needed. 

"Willow, do you know what the difference is between you and all the other would be big-bads in Sunnydale? Every monster we encounter, every demon that tries to end the world, they all have one thing in common: They have no sense of compassion. They don't feel remorse for the lives they destroy. You're different than they are. You can't bear to think that you've caused others pain. You tried to hurt us all, to destroy us, because you were out of your mind with grief, and all you could see was that we were trying to get in the way of your vengeance. The reason you can't face us, the reason you hide away in the dark, it's because you feel remorse. I talked to Giles, Will. I know how he tricked you into stealing the coven's power. He told me what the power did to you, the pain you felt. You did what you did to end the suffering, not to cause it. You just went about it the wrong way. We're still here, Willow. The world's still here. What you do next is up to you. But I want you to remember one thing: If you give up now, if you decide that you can't bear to go on, then you dishonor Tara's memory. She forgave you Willow. She forgave you for putting magic before her. She forgave you for lying to her and betraying her trust. Let that be Tara's legacy. Honor her by forgiving yourself, and by letting us forgive you."

At the mention of Tara's name, the floodgates opened even wider. The tears poured from Willow's eyes as the depth of her loss hit her once more. Xander felt her arms tighten around him, and he returned the gesture, running his hand slowly thru his best friend's hair.

"I'm so sorry Xand. I'm so lost without her. I- I just got her back, and now she's left me again. I can't think about tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. I can't see past the pain. I can't imagine my life without her."

Xander said nothing; he was fresh out of answers.. Instead, he bent down, softly pressing his lips to her moist cheek, tasting the saltiness of her tears as they streamed down her alabaster skin, and guiltily reveling in the pleasure. Willow didn't pull away. Turning unexpectedly to face him, she felt his lips brush lightly against hers. Xander tensed against her, and Willow pulled him even closer. She needed this. She needed to feel close to him, to feel alive again, if only for tonight.

Willow kissed him again, harder this time, pulling his upper lip into her mouth. Her tongue probed eagerly against his lips, begging them for entry. Xander demurred, mentally forcing the blood back to his brain. _OK, this has to be wrong. This is Willow, my best friend, my GAY best friend. I mean, it's nice and it feels good, so it's probably wrong and… whoa – hands in new places. Willow's hands in new places….again. _

__

The last thought jarred him back to reality. Willow's hands had moved from his face, venturing down to his chest, pausing only long enough to divest him of his shirt, then continued their southerly journey towards more intimate regions. Sensing Xander's reticence, Willow disengaged her lips from his long enough to reassure her friend, even as her hands busied themselves with the button on his jeans. "Xan, I need this. You need this. I know we're not in love, and we don't have to be. I love you, and I know you love me. It doesn't have to mean anything more than that." 

Maybe it was Willow's sage words of advice, or maybe it was her hand stroking him, either way Xander felt himself compelled to agree. Willow continued with her ministrations, her surprisingly adroit tongue exploring the far reaches of Xander's throat, even as her nimble fingers finally succeeded in freeing his manhood from its denim prison. Gasping involuntarily from the contact, Xander proceeded to return the favor, caressing Willow's breasts through the sheer silk fabric concealing them. His fingers fumbled with the impossibly small buttons on her blouse, searching desperately for the treasure buried within. He finally succeeded in with the task, uncovering her small, perfectly shaped breasts, tenderly kneading them with his palms as his thumb expertly traced small circles around the dark red areola. Xander paused for a moment, taking in the sight of his best friend's body, reveling in the exquisite beauty that was Willow. _So this is what heaven's like, _mused Xander, closing his eyes in an attempt to forever ingrain the moment in his mind. A firm believer in Murphy's law, Xander was keenly aware that at any moment this could, and probably would, go all to hell. After all, this was too perfect, given his past experience in life and love on the Hellmouth. 

Feeling Willow pull away from him, Xander opened his eyes, expecting the worst. What he saw stunned him. Willow knelt on the bed, her thumbs hooked inside the elastic band of her white lace panties. She slowly pulled them down her hips, revealing her enticingly bald sex, already slick with desire. Sliding her right hand between her legs, she lightly rubbed her moist outer lips, slipping first one finger, then another, inside herself. Willow's left hand crept upwards, alternately caressing and pinching her erect nipples, the incredibly erotic sight rendering Xander speechless. 

"Xand, think you could give me a hand?" 

The last cogent thought Xander had that night was that maybe this day hadn't been so bad after all.

****

**Willy's Bar**

**That same night**

As at most any bar, the regulars at Willy's liked to knock back a few stiff drinks at the end of a hard day's work. But, as the resident's of Sunnydale could attest, Willy's wasn't like most other bars. At other places, people ate the dead things offered on the menu; at Willy's, the dead things ate the people offered on the menu. 

Mindful of this fact, Willy, namesake and proprietor of this fine establishment, couldn't help but feel a bit apprehensive toward his newest customer. The man's loud attire could only be described as late-seventies pimp, and he walked with an indifference not usually found in a living Sunnydale resident, especially not after dark. That was a quality that could get a man killed, if that's what he truly was. 

He wasn't a vampire; of that much Willy was sure. Though the man's ensemble screamed undead fashion victim, his demeanor said otherwise. His obvious distaste for the patrons of Willy's was readily apparent. But Willy's was an establishment known for its variety, both in clientele and selection of fresh blood. For that reason the man could be any manner of creature, and therefore bore watching, something Willy fully intended to do.

Strolling over to the bar, the man took a seat opposite Willy, removed his purple fedora and casually glanced around the room. What he saw amused him. The bar was populated by no fewer than a dozen of Sunnydale's less savory denizens, a virtual who's who of the demon world. There were vampires, lycanthropes, fyarl demons, chaos demons, even the odd bull demon, whose kind, rumor had it, had once endeavored to storm the very gates of heaven. For all of their apparent differences, though, the assembled demons all had one thing in common on this night– they were all afraid.

Willy curiously approached the newcomer, making a show of wiping down the bar with his towel. "What can I do you for pal?" 

"Guinness, draft, and make sure the glass is clean" the stranger replied in an accent Willy couldn't quite place.

"Sure thing buddy, one Black and Tan coming right up." Willy turned to the sink, grabbing what passed for a clean glass. "Say, I haven't seen you around here before. You got a name?"

"People call me a lot of names. You can call me Whistler." 

"I'm just askin', cause, you know, we don't get that many humans in here" Willy remarked off-handedly as he placed the glass under the tap. 

"Big surprise. Maybe you should try cleaning the bathroom. It smells like death in there." Whistler was beginning to enjoy himself. This was not going to be good night for the weasel behind the bar.

Willy ignored Whistler's observation, topping off the glass with an unusually generous head before placing it on the bar in front of the odd customer. "So, what brings you to beautiful downtown Sunnyhell? You here on business, or just passing through?"

Whistler played along for the moment, knowing full well Willy's reputation as an information broker in demonic circles. "Actually, a little bit of both" he said, taking a sip of the dark stout. "I'm meeting a friend".

"A friend, huh. It's always nice to have a friend, 'specially around here. So, this friend of yours, he a local?" Willy pried, once again on a fishing expedition. After all, information was power, or in his situation, money, which was just as good in any case.

"He's not from around here, though I hear his boss has a few places around town." Whistler could play this game, too.

"You don't say. This boss, have I heard of him?"

Whistler smiled to himself , "I wouldn't bet against it, though I doubt you've seen him in here. He runs in different circles, you see." Satisfied with his attempt at obfuscation, Whistler opted to change the subject. "You know, your boys seem pretty wired tonight. What crawled up their asses and died?" The balance demon wasn't just making small talk. The assembled multitude in Willy's seemed unusually on edge, even for a bunch of antisocial demons.

"I don't know man. The last coupla' days, they've been all wigged. Something's got 'em spooked, and these guys aren't exactly the type to scare easily, if you catch my drift."

"Maybe they caught something in the bathroom" Whistler ventured, an innocent expression on his face.

"Hey pal, lay off the bathroom. Demons, they ain't exactly big on the personal hygiene, you know." Willy was genuinely hurt. He had just cleaned the bathroom last week, after all.

"You have my condolences" Whistler replied, draining his glass and setting it down loudly on the bar. Whistler turned away from the bartender, taking a closer look at his fellow imbibers. The usually boisterous demons were largely huddled together as one group, keeping a keen eye on the front entrance. A lone vampire, a 200 year-old bloodsucker, was presently pacing silently up and down the wooden floor, sniffing the air nervously. So pervasive was the fear in the room that one could almost smell it, much to Whistler's delight and to Willy's chagrin. Looking up at the bartender, the balance demon smiled broadly once again. "I think my friend is here."

All heads in the bar snapped towards the entrance as the metal door slowly swung open. For the first time in his life, Willy prayed that the Slayer had decided to pay a visit. He was terrified to think of what else could inspire this degree of fear in his patrons. Willy's prayers, however, would not be answered on this night. 

The newcomer could not be mistaken for the petite blond woman, no matter how poor the lighting in the bar, nor how drunk the patronage. He was of medium height (by human standards at least) and dressed head-to-foot in black, the bottom of his trench coat nearly brushing the floor as he walked. The most remarkable feature of the man was his impassive mien. He didn't bat an eye at the things he saw in the bar, ignoring them completely as he walked towards the short man seated at the bar. He took a seat beside Whistler, not bothering to remove his coat. He didn't plan on being here long.

He fished a cigarette out of a small metal case, getting a light from a Zippo proffered by the bartender. "Been a long time Whistler" the man said, taking a long drag from the American cigarette. He liked Marlboros.

"Fifty years, but who's counting," Whistler agreed, making the requisite small-talk. "You don't call, you don't write. Where's the love?" 

The man looked at Whistler, raising a disapproving eyebrow. "You've been spending too much time in California, my friend. You're going soft on me."

"What can I say, Danyael. I'm a lover, not a fighter. I leave the dirty work to you."

Danyael chuckled at his "friend's" flippant remark. "I doubt that our superiors would consider the execution of supreme policy "dirty work", as you so succinctly put it, Whistler." Dealing with the balance demon was always an exercise in patience. _Some things never change_.

"Speaking of the PTB's, I don't suppose they've reconsidered. You know, maybe they thought things over and decided this was a really, really bad idea." There was always a chance. It wouldn't be the first time they had reversed themselves, and with luck, it wouldn't be the last.

"Whistler, you forget yourself. Ours is not to question. We are but pawns in this game of chess. It matters not in what esteem we hold their policies."

"I see you've memorized the handbook, Yoda" Whistler lamented. "You know, If I recall correctly, I remember a time when a certain individual bearing a remarkable resemblance to yourself managed to get himself banished for disobeying orders. Refresh my memory if you would; how exactly did that come pass?"

"You know, Whistler, immortality is a relative term." Danyael remarked, the veiled threat implicit in his statement not quite so veiled.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones…" Whistler started, his reply cut short by the sudden appearance of a misshapen claw on his shoulder.

Pivoting in his stool, Whistler turned to see the demon whom the claw belonged to. Not surprisingly, he found himself staring into the ugly mug of a bull demon. A very large, very ugly bull demon.

"…but words will never hurt me.," the creature finished, an evil leer plastered on his gruesome face. "I, on the other hand, will."

Sighing audibly at Whistler's predicament, Danyael stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, turning slowly to face the demon and the small horde assembled behind it. "First of all, " Danyael explained, as if to a child, "my friend here is not a mortal. I am well aware that your kind is not known for their intelligence, but I would think that you would have learned a thing or two in the last 500 years." Danyael continued on, ignoring the growling of the now irate bull demon towering over him. "Second of all, you're not going to do anything to him, or any one else for that matter, for the rest of your miserable life."

"Oh really, and why exactly is that?" the bull demon asked, now as amused as he was angry.

Danyael said nothing at first. He merely smiled at the demon, an eerie serenity belying the torrent of emotion simmering beneath the surface. His eyes began to take on an otherworldly cobalt hue as he unleashed the power coursing through his veins, freeing it from its cage to cascade over him in wave after wave, surrendering to its raw essence. The pure energy emanating from Danyael washed over Willy's like a tidal wave, revealing his true identify to the assembled demons. A sudden realization dawned on the bull demon, though too late to be of any benefit to him. The man seated before him was the one they had all feared. It was he who was hunting them.

Danyael looked up at the cowed beast before him, finally answering the demon's question. "You won't do anything to my friend", he replied, "because you're about to die." Faster than the human eye could follow, Danyael's hand shot upwards, piercing the giant's larynx like a blade, passing through his neck, severing the spinal cord, before finally emerging from the back of the demon's neck at the base of its skull. The incredible force of the blow tore the demon's head from its torso, killing it instantly, showering its fellow demons with copious amounts of noxious green blood. 

Through the entire exchange, Whistler remained silent, shaking his head at the demon's graphic misfortune. Looking past the lifeless corpse of the bull demon, he belatedly addressed the remaining demons. "A word of advice boys: Now might be a good time to run. My friend here is not known for his self-restraint." 

Accepting that discretion was indeed the better part of valor, the remaining demons promptly turned heel and fled the bar, stumbling over one another in their haste to escape, not caring whether or not the slayer was out hunting tonight. Best to take your chances with the enemy you know.

Whistler watched the bar empty, then turned back to his enigmatic friend, picking up the conversation where they left off. "But seriously man, have they really considered how this revelation's gonna affect her? Trust me Dan, you do not want to upset this girl. She doesn't take surprises well; she tends to get a little violent, generally at my expense."

"I appreciate your apprehension, Whistler, but time is of the essence. The girl must be prepared for what's to come, and she can only do that once she's accepted what she truly is." Danyael was fast becoming exasperated. _Doesn't he ever give up? Persistence is a noble quality, but only to a certain extent. At some point it just became damn annoying. _By Danyael's reckoning,Whistler was fast approaching that point.__

__

"I'm only suggesting that for once you try a little subtlety. Look at it from her point of view. The girl died for God's sake. She had her soul torn from heaven, which I'm led to believe is an altogether unpleasant experience. I just think that you should tread lightly when dealing with this slayer. She's been through a lot."

"Whistler, you're preaching to the choir here pal. I know better than most what she's going through. It's not easy to come back from the dead, and I should know, I've done it before. It will be hard for her to accept her destiny, but she's done it before, and she'll do it again. She has no choice. I wasn't thrilled about it at first either, but I came around, and look how I turned out."

"And they say that you have no sense of humor," Whistler replied drolly, reaching for his hat. "Do what you will, pal, just heed my advice – go easy on her. You'll thank me later when she doesn't stake you," the balance demon argued reasonably. "Well, I'll be damned, look at the time. It's been great catching up with you, but duty calls. I have a date with a waterlogged vampire in the city of angels." Turning to make his exit, Whistler spied Willy crouching behind the bar, a foul smell wafting up from the still terrified bartender. "You know Willy, if you're really serious about cleaning up this joint, you might want to start with your pants. You smell like shit." Nodding farewell to his supernatural friend, he proceeded to make his exit, whistling to himself as exited into the dark night.

Alone in the bar with Willy, Danyael gazed down at the prone bartender. "I hear you're in the information business, William," he stated matter-of-factly. "As luck would have it, I just happen to be in the market for a little information myself."

Willy somehow managed to find his voice. "s-s-s-s-sure thing pal. Anything you want. I-I'm your man," he stammered, in fear for his life. 

"Elizabeth Summers. Short. Blonde. Likes to kill your customers. Where can I find her?"

Willy didn't hesitate to supply the requested information. "1606 Revello. She lives there with her sister. Why man? What do you want with her?"

Danyael grinned in response. He stood up, walked to the front door, and stopped. Not bothering to face Willy, he nonetheless responded to the human's question. "I'm going to send her to meet her maker," he said purposefully, plunging out the door and into the awaiting night, leaving the bartender with more questions than answers.

****


	2. Pennies From Heaven

_Author:_  Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_:   "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaimer:_  If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction?  Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_  Follow-up to the travesty that was season 6.  Answers questions such as:  Why Spike is able to hit Buffy; why did Xander really leave Anya at the alter; where does Whistler get his wardrobe; and just what really is in a hot dog.  (Just kidding about the hot dog – nobody knows what they hell they put in those)

_Spoilers:_  Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.  Also, this may be a crossover at some point, though I make no guarantees.

_Rating:   _R, for violence, strong language, sexual content, and the untimely demise of cute little puppies and bunny rabbits.  

_Dedication_:  To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.

_Note 1:_  This fic will be primarily action/drama oriented, with just a smidgeon of social introspection thrown in for flavor.  Will also at least hint at being a B/X and/or X/W shipper.  I don't write romance folks, so probably no smut (well, not much), unless the Gods intervene, at which point I'm powerless to resist.  Also, I'm a fanfic virgin…so please be gentle!

_Note 2:_  To any B/S fans who may endeavor to read this story:  Fully expect Spike to die a painful death.  Let's face it, he stopped being even mildly cool after season 4, and I fully intend to put him out of his misery and into the nearest ashtray.

_Note 3_:  I apologize for any abuse of the Latin language.  I haven't used it since high school, most of which I spent in a drunken stupor.

_Note 4_:  All text appearing in italics reflects a character's thoughts.

_Feedback:_  Thanks to those who have provided feedback.  I'll remember you when I'm rich and famous – or blame you when I'm destitute and obscure, which is infinitely more likely.  As always, constructive criticism and positive feedback are welcome.  I also accept flames; I use them to light my cigarettes. Chapter 2 Early the next morning **Somewhere along the African West Coast**

The images flashed before his eyes, a thousand dead faces, each one of them wrought by his own hand.  He didn't remember their names, had never known them in fact.  They were unimportant in any case.  Those people were merely food to him, just a few of the billions of "happy meals on legs" that inhabited this world.  _They were beneath him.  They were cattle._

But that wasn't the truth, not all of it anyway.  Feeding for him was more than just basic sustenance.  The ecstasy of the kill was an aphrodisiac to his kind, a narcotic for the undead.  Like any other junkie, Spike had been mortified at the thought of quitting cold turkey.  Unfortunately for him, he hadn't had any say in the matter.  Ever since those initiative bastards had chipped him, he had been unable to kill humans, let alone harm them.  He didn't miss the kill per se; it was the orgasmic rush that came along with the killing.  It was the God-like power of feeling the life drain from the body, savoring the bitter ambrosia as it streamed down his throat.  And now it was all gone, and it wasn't right.

_First Angelus; Now me.  If there is a God, _Spike reckoned_, the git has a bloody sick sense of humor.  _It wasn't enough that he had the V-chip from hell jammed in his skull.  No, Fate had to go and give him a goddamned two-for-one deal, and now he had a fucking soul to boot.  _Some vampire I am.  I guess the saying was right after all, _he mused, _she really is a fickle bitch.  S'all right though, _Spike consoled himself, lighting up yet another cigarette, inhaling deeply of the harmless carcinogens._  Looks like I got the last laugh for once. _ 

To be honest, he had thought it would be worse.  Though it had been a century, he still remembered with remarkable clarity how it had been for Angelus.  The demon within him cowed, Angelus had lost all heart for the kill.  He'd become a whipping boy for the other side.  _That won't happen to me, _ Spike reassured himself.  _Not to this demon.  I'm not about to be anybody's bitch.  _

True, having his soul restored had come as bit of a shock.   The initial pain had been intense, far worse than anything Spike had previously experienced.  That was saying a lot.  Angelus had been one sadistic son-of-a-bitch in his day, and was not remiss in meting out punishment when his childe stepped out of line.  That kind of pain paled in comparison to having your soul involuntarily returned.  Present pain aside, though, the rest wasn't so bad.  Sure, he now had the stench of a soul about him, but he was already an outcast in the demon community, so his new social status was irrelevant.  What had surprised him the most was the degree of guilt he felt in regard to his past activities:  He felt none.  Nothing.  No guilt. No remorse. Nothing.  Oh, the soul was there all right, packed away neatly somewhere inside his reanimated British corpse.  But it didn't bother him.  He wouldn't sulk and brood like that nancy-boy Angelus.  And he sure as hell wouldn't take up the fight for the forces of good, at least not from here on out.  He had his own agenda now, his own crusade, and saving the world wasn't in his mission statement

_It's a funny thing, _the vampire reflected, walking aimlessly down the darkened beach, fumbling in his pocket for yet another cigarette.  _Humans like to see things in black and white.  Makes them feel better about the world,  gives it  some semblance of order. The philosophy was simple enough:  if you had a soul, you were good.  If you didn't, you were bad.  That's just how it was.. _But Spike new better.  Having a soul doesn't preclude one from being evil.  _Hitler had a soul.  Stalin had a soul.  Hell, even Martha Stewart has a soul –  well, the bint  probably does_.  The point is, humans had the potential to be every bit as evil as the worst demon.  They just had to find a way to circumvent the moral consciousness that comes part and parcel with the soul.  And if a pathetic human wanker could do it, then surely so could he.

That's not to say that he was willing to let bygones be bygones.  He had a score to settle with that traitorous demon for what he did.  _Giving me a soul.  Who does that stupid  bastard think he is?  _There was a price to be paid in blood for that particular transgression, and Spike intended to collect in full.  _But not before I settle a few other scores.  _Spike smiled at that thought.  Plotting his revenge always made him feel better, especially when it involved death and suffering, which it always did.  It had been a long time since his days in Rome, but the Latin came to him like it was only yesterday:   _Morituri non cognant, _he thought to himself.  _Those about to die – just don't know it._

****

****

**Sunnydale California**

August 24, 2002 

Revenge was the furthest thing from her mind on this archetypal California morning.  The sun was shining.  The birds were chirping.  And it was a whole new ballgame for one Elizabeth Anne Summers.  Call it an epiphany, call it a moment of clarity:  Call it what you will, she had come to a sudden realization during the events of the previous month.  She no longer wanted to crawl into her grave and die.  She had a purpose in this world; she had a mission, and she had a family who loved her.

It was like a huge weight had been lifted.  All of the emotional baggage she had carried around since her resurrection was gone.  She didn't harbor any resentment toward her friends for bringing her back.  Perhaps their motives had been selfish, maybe they were shortsighted in their actions, but what they did, they did out of love.  She wanted to be a part of their lives again, and god-willing, she would be.

Looking at the clock, Buffy realized she had only gotten four hours of sleep, yet she felt more refreshed than ever.  As they had every night since the battle with Willow, she and Dawn had talked until the wee hours of the morning, discussing everything and nothing at the same time.  They talked about their hopes, their dreams, which boy Dawn was currently obsessing over (his name was Ethan), and the best flavor of Haagen-Dazs ice cream to drown your sorrows with.  They had even broached the painful issues; nothing was held back.  They discussed  Spike's attempted rape of Buffy, their current financial woes, Willow's state of mind, and, last-but-not-least, Buffy's relationship with Xander.

_Xander.  He was the big question mark_.  _A big, bold-type question mark_.  They hadn't yet talked about her affair with Spike. The timing was never right, and so it remained the proverbial elephant in the room.  They couldn't ignore it, yet nobody really wanted to talk about it, least of all Buffy.  Sooner or later, though, they would have to address it.  Buffy could understand Xander's anger.  Previously, she had attributed Xander's hatred of Angel to jealousy.  But now she realized that Xander's hatred of Angel, and now Spike, was more than just that green eyed monster rearing its ugly head.  It was something more, something that went far deeper.  Xander's introduction to her world had come at a high cost.  He had to kill his best friend.  He had to drive a stake through Jesse's heart.  She knew he had blamed himself for Jesse's death.  Maybe that's why he was always risking his life to protect his friends.  He couldn't bear losing another friend, not if he could do something about it.  

There was even more to it than that, though.  Somewhere inside of her, Buffy knew that he still harbored feelings for her.  She couldn't imagine how he must of felt.  Seeing Anya with Spike watching as the woman he loved gave herself to a soulless creature, committing the most heinous act of bestiality he could imagine, right before his eyes.   Buffy's betrayal of his trust was even worse.  She had been there before, and hadn't learned her lesson the first time around.  Xander's words had come back to haunt her:  "_I guess a guy's got to be dead to make time with you."  _Perhaps there was some truth to it.  Buffy still hadn't come to terms with her tryst with Spike, and she didn't expect that Xander would either anytime soon.  Spike was dead; he was a monster, she realized.  She had almost allowed herself to forget it.  After all, he had done some good.  He protected Dawn with his life, and had accompanied Buffy on patrol numerous times, providing information and backup when it was desperately needed.  But he wasn't a man.  He wasn't one of them.  Spike wouldn't  hesitate to kill either Willow or Xander if given half the chance.  It was his nature.   She knew that.  She also knew that he had tried to rape her in her own home.  And that, more than anything else he had done, was unforgivable.

It had been difficult to make Dawn understand at first.  She didn't want to believe Buffy, but deep down she knew Buffy would no longer lie to her, not after everything they had been through together.  Dawn missed Spike, that much was obvious.  She spent a great deal of time hanging around with Clem at Spike's crypt, waiting for the bleached-blonde vampire to return, to explain himself.  Buffy didn't approve of this of course, but she knew that:  1)  Neither hell nor high water would keep Dawn from going, and 2) Spike wouldn't hurt Dawn, even if he wanted to hurt Buffy.   It hadn't helped matters that Xander wasn't around much either.  He still couldn't stand to look at Buffy, and his absence was impacting Dawn as well.  Buffy knew that Dawn needed a male presence in her life, and with Giles planning to leave once Willow was better, Buffy knew that things were only going to get more difficult.

_Baby steps, _Buffy thought to herself_.  Baby Steps.  _She knew that she had to take things one step at a time, lest she become overwhelmed.  Right now, restoring her family had primacy of place in her life.  Everything else would have to take a back seat.

She and Dawn were going over to Xander's this afternoon to visit Willow.  Since Willow's return from the dark side, she had lived with Xander, rarely leaving his side.  Buffy felt a little put-off at first, but soon realized that Willow needed to be with her oldest friend.  She needed Xander to heal.  For the past month, Buffy and Dawn had spent as much time with her as possible, visiting her daily, assuring her that all was forgiven, and trying to help the recovering Wicca get on with her life.  Their extended family was still estranged, but Buffy fully intended to make things right again.

Pulling on a pair of khaki shorts and a tank top, Buffy proceeded to make her way into the hallway and down the stairs.  She grimaced as her enhanced sense of smell detected what could only be the result of Dawn's feeble attempt at breakfast.  _Chocolate pancakes again?  God, was I like that at 16?  Was I ever like that?  _She loved Dawn, but she'd be damned if she ever understood all of her sister's little idiosyncrasies.  Chuckling to herself, she walked into the kitchen to assess the damage.  "Hey sis, taking it out on our breakfast again?"

Dawn turned away from the stove, an expression of mock guilt plastered across her face.  "They were shifty-eyed pancakes.  I swear, they were evil, shifty-eyed pancakes, intent on taking over the world, so I had to do it.  Really, it was either them or me."

"As long as it was in the line of duty," Buffy replied, somehow keeping a straight face.  "How did the eggs make out?"  Perhaps there was still some hope for breakfast.

"I think they were in cahoots with the pancakes.  I'm sorry, I know much you liked them."  This time the guilty look on Dawn's face was at least partially sincere.  "Maybe we should sound the retreat and regroup at Waffle House?"

Buffy considered their options….for all of two seconds.  "Waffle House it is.  Why don't you bury the remains of the evil breakfast foods while I find some shoes."

"Deal….. hey, wait a second," Dawn whined, "how come when you kill the evil things, everyone else has to bury them, but when I kill something,  It's my problem?"

"Because," Buffy yelled back, already halfway up the stairs, "I am the chosen one, and you are a mystical ball of breakfast burning energy." She paused at the top of the steps.  "Don't complain Dawn. At least your corpses fit nicely into the garbage disposal."

Dawn couldn't argue with Buffy logic.  She dumped the remains of breakfast into the sink and switched on the disposal.  Another enemy vanquished from the Hellmouth.  She rinsed the skillet in the sink, placing it into the dishwasher just as Buffy came bounding down the stairs.  "You wanna drive Dawn?"  

"Of course I want to," Dawn said, snatching the keys from the hook beside the door, "I risk my life enough the way it is.  Why tempt fate by letting you drive?"  She ignored the face Buffy made at her, jogging out the front door, her sister right behind her.  Dawn jumped into the driver's side of the Jeep Cherokee, pausing only to check her appearance in the vanity mirror.  Buffy climbed into the passenger side and made a point of fastening her seatbelt.  Dawn turned the key in the ignition, and the engine sputtered to life on the third try.  "I think this is the Jeep's way of telling us it's time for a new car."

Buffy rolled her eyes.  "I think our savings account would disagree with you.  Which reminds me, swing by the ATM.  I don't have enough cash for breakfast."  

Dawn backed the SUV out of the driveway, put it in drive, and quickly took off down Revello Drive.  She made a smooth turn onto Euclid, slowing only slightly as she pulled into the bank parking lot and into the ATM lane.

"You know Dawn, that little pedal next to the gas pedal?  It's called a brake.  You might try using it sometime."  Buffy was having visions of otherworldly insurance premiums.  Not a pleasant sight.

"Careful sis," Dawn remarked, "you're starting to show your age."  The sixteen year-old NASCAR wannabe brought the jeep to an abrupt halt, and slid Buffy's ATM card into the slot.  She punched in the PIN, and hit the fast cash button.  After an interminable wait, she eagerly snatched the cash as the machine spit it out, and grabbed the receipt and ATM card.  Dawn handed the cash and card to Buffy, glancing quickly at the receipt.  Her draw dropped when she remaining balance.  "Buffy, how much cash did you say we had in checking?"

"About fifteen hundred.  Why, is the balance showing something else?"

"Yeah, unless they changed the whole numerical system and didn't tell us.  I don't think fifteen-hundred is a seven digit number."

**To be continued…..**

Thus ends chapter 2.  Again, thanks to the few who have read and reviewed my humble attempt at fanfiction.  I appreciate the feedback.  Please keep it coming, and let me know how I'm doing.

Also, I'm not sure where I'm going with this story, so please be patient with me. This will likely be a novel length story, and I'm working 10-12 hr days, so I have little time to write. The progress is agonizingly slow.  It never ceases to amaze me how prolific some writers are.  That's it for now.  Chapter 3 should be out (hopefully) sometime this weekend.

'till next time,

Rabid Squirrel 


	3. The Enemy of My Enemy

_Author:_  Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_:   "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaimer:_  If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction?  Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_  Follow-up to the travesty that was season 6.  Answers questions such as:  Why Spike is able to hit Buffy; why did Xander really leave Anya at the alter; where does Whistler get his wardrobe; and just what really is in a hot dog.  (Just kidding about the hot dog – nobody knows what they hell they put in those)

_Spoilers:_  Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.  Also, this may be a crossover at some point, though I make no guarantees.

_Rating:   _R, for violence, strong language, sexual content, and the untimely demise of cute little puppies and bunny rabbits

_Dedication_:  To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.

_Note 1:_  This fic will be primarily action/drama oriented, with just a smidgeon of social introspection thrown in for flavor.  Will also at least hint at being a B/X and X/W shipper, though will ultimately lean towards B/X .  I don't write romance folks, so probably no smut (well, not much), unless the Gods intervene, at which point I'm powerless to resist.  Also, I'm a fanfic virgin…so please be gentle!

_Note 2:_  To any B/S fans who may endeavor to read this story:  Fully expect Spike to die a painful death.  Let's face it, he stopped being even mildly cool after season 4, and I fully intend to put him out of his misery and into the nearest ashtray.

_Note 3_:  I apologize for any abuse of the Latin language.  I haven't used it since high school, most of which I spent in a drunken stupor.

_Note 4_:  All text appearing in italics reflects a character's thoughts.

_Note 5_:  Let me apologize in advance for the way this story jumps around.  I'm trying to introduce all the relevant players up front, though I'm not really sure in what direction this story is going at this point.  I'm open to suggestions, though I can't guarantee they'll be incorporated in this story.  A warning to anyone reading this;  if you are offended by organized religion, or religious concepts in general, this story is probably not for you.  I will be exploring the religious overtones implied in BTVS, though never explicitly touched on.  I feel this is an area that has been largely ignored, and I feel compelled to address it.  I'm not a zealot, I'm just open-minded (at least I think I am; many have accused me of having completely lost my mind, but I digress…).

_Note 6:  _Don't you hate it when people ramble on and on and the size of their story notes comes to rival the length of the story itself.  I mean , it's annoying and egomaniacal, and…oh shit, I'm sorry.  I'm doing it again aren't I?

_Feedback:_  Thanks to RobClark, Finn Mac Cool, lwbush (your work is an inspiration to all B/Xers), de profuundis, and all others who have taken the time to read and review this little work of fiction.  I'm glad you came along for the ride.  Your feedback is greatly appreciated (have no fear FMC, I think it's safe to assume Spike will unleash a certain degree of carnage and mayhem before his demise.  He wouldn't be Spike otherwise).  As always, constructive criticism and positive feedback are more than welcome.  I also accept flames; I use them to light my cigarettes.  Since you're so fond of them, I'll smoke one for you Shell Lee. 

**Chapter 3**

First National Bank of Sunnydale 

**The previous day**

**August 23, 2002**

J. Elton Marshall usually worked banker's hours.  It was a logical assumption, given that he was a banker.  It meant that on most days, he was able to make it home in time for dinner with the wife and kids.  Today would be an exception, though he wasn't bothered in the least.  After all, it wasn't every day that a Podunk little bank like his gained a client of this stature.

The man seated opposite him certainly looked the part.  Alligator shoes,  an Armani suit, and a haircut that probably cost more that Elton's last trip to the dentist all screamed lawyer, though the banker doubted this man was as unethical as most.  He did, after all, represent an historic and (somewhat) respected institution, and he had the credentials to prove it.

"Let me get this straight," J. Elton began again, "You want to deposit one and a half million dollars in this girl's account, but you don't want her to know where the money came from?"

"That is correct," the man in the Armani suit replied in a heavy Italian accent.

"I must tell you, this is a highly unusual request."  

"If you are uncomfortable with this request, Mr. Marshall , we could take our business elsewhere.  I'm sure there are other financial institutions in Sunnydale that would be more than happy to accommodate us." 

"Please don't take offense, sir.  I just feel obligated to inform you that Ms. Summers has accumulated a substantial amount of debt, and would likely spend a significant amount of your deposit to pay off her outstanding loans.  As it is, she's barely paying the interest on the principal."

The lawyer, one Arturo Pantonini,  was not deterred.  "That will not be a problem.  My employer will be retiring those obligations.  The requisite funds will be wired from the First Swiss Bank of Geneva within the hour.  Henceforth, we will be making a monthly wire transfer to her account in the amount of  $10,000.00 American.  We would also appreciate it if your bank were to extend to her a line of credit in the amount of, say $50,000.00?"

With visions of dollar signs pushing all doubts from his head, Mr. Marshall was now in a very agreeable mood.  "I don't think that will be a problem.  I'll oversee the electronic funds transfer personally.  But I do have one question sir."

"And what would that question be, Mr. Marshall?"

"Why this girl?  Why on earth would you want to give so much money to such a young girl?"

"Don't you know," Arturo said, rising to leave, "the Catholic Church is a charitable organization."

**Bletchley Park**

**50 miles northwest of London**

**24 August 2002**

**0800 hrs GMT**

To the untrained eye, Bletchley Park was just another rambling country home, worn down by the ravages of time and the changing seasons, yet possessing of a certain understated elegance and charm that was uniquely British.  There are, however, those old enough to know that it was once much more than that.

Sixty years earlier, the estate had been the home of the British  Government Code & Cipher School, later renamed Government Communications Headquarters.  GC&CS had been tasked with the Herculean effort of decoding communications originating from the German Cipher Machine E, more popularly known as the Enigma machine.  Dozens of the world's best cryptanalysts, using electro-mechanic scanners known as "bombes", worked night and day to crack the German random-cipher codes.  Their success in doing so was largely credited for turning the tide in the Atlantic naval campaign during WWII.  

Though the estate had been largely abandoned in the intervening years, today its proud heritage would be restored, for an even more important purpose.   

The distinguished guests had begun arriving the previous night, some of them cordial acquaintances, others complete strangers, though all cognizant of the relative import of the assembled council.  They mostly huddled in small groups, their hushed tones bearing witness to the historic significance of the gathering.  Among their number were heads of state and religious figureheads, though the overwhelming majority bore the various uniforms and rank insignia of their respective nations' armed forces.   This was not a political summit; no treaty or covenants would be signed here.  For the first time, politicians and warriors alike would be taken at their word.  For an occasion such as this, it had to be that way.

Surprisingly, the Minister of Defense was the last to arrive.  Waltzing into the foyer, his trusted advisors in tow, F. Spencer Montgomery immediately sought out his friend and confidant, General of the Army Walter J. Sherman, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.   General Sherman, his immaculately pressed uniform bearing no less than four rows of combat ribbons and sporting an unheard of --­­ at least since the second World War -- five gleaming stars on the shoulder-boards, disengaged himself from his current company and embraced his old friend warmly.

"Frederick, you old dog, it's good to see you again," the General exclaimed, his booming voice violating the relative silence in the room.  He had never been accused of being soft-spoken.  "What's it been, two years?"

The Minister smiled warmly, genuinely happy to see his compatriot, even under circumstances such as these.  "Since the Baghdad summit, old chum.  I see you made out fairly well in the interim." The addition of the fifth star on the General's epaulets had not gone unnoticed.  "One could surmise that  your President was duly impressed by your performance in the Gulf."

"Just doing my job,  Minister," the general replied graciously, the humility obvious in his response.  "I've noticed that our associates from the Vatican have already arrived.  May I assume that the conference will begin ahead of schedule?"

Nodding in confirmation, the Minister replied, "Unfortunately, our enemies have seen fit to accelerate their schedule.  We have little time to waste as it is.  The Papal Representative will be addressing the conference shortly."

As if on cue, the British Home Office liaison stepped up to the podium and called the assembled multitude to attention.  "Ladies and gentleman, on behalf of my country, I would like to welcome you to Britain."  The man paused, surveying the crowd, attempting to gauge their collective mood.  As the head of MI5, it was his duty to read people's minds, a skill he continually excelled at.  The man collected his thoughts and resumed his address to the crowd.  "We have come here today for a noble purpose, a purpose that transcends our individual national interests.  For the collective good, we have put aside our petty differences to stand before an enemy the likes of which we have never before comprehended.  Many assembled in this room have met before on the field of battle as enemies.  Today, for the first time, we stand united, a single voice shouting out in the darkness:  We will not go gently into the night.  We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight on the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall NEVER surrender."  Echoes of the most famous of British statesmen reverberated throughout the hall, compelling the assembled men to once again take up arms in defense of all they held dear, though this time the price of failure would be far greater indeed.  Nonetheless, the applause rang loud and true, men and women of all faith and nationalities united in a common cause.  It was enough to bring tears to one's eyes, though none in attendance would shed any this particular morning.  It was a sign of weakness after all, and weakness was a trait that had no place in this forum.

As the applause died down, the Brit yielded the podium to his Italian counterpart, the venerable Archbishop of Rome.  The elderly gentleman, himself only five years younger than the current head of the Catholic Church, comported himself in the manner of a man half his age, though he lacked the delivery and panache of the previous speaker.  Nonetheless, the sprightly old man bounded up to the podium, his faith almost contagious.  A man who himself had experienced the horrors of evil first-hand administering to the needy in a place called Buchenwald,  he had learned that there was no evil wrought by man or beast that could not be overcome by the human spirit.  

The priest smiled at the crowd, uttering a silent prayer to his Savior.  "Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming today.  May the Lord bestow his blessing upon this gathering and see us through our time of need.  My friends, I stand before you today not as a representative of the Vatican, but as a fellow human being.  I am here to apprise you of our current situation and to inform you of the steps the Church has taken in response to the current threat."  He paused, taking a sip of bottled water.  "Now, if you will all turn your attention to the monitor, we will begin our briefing."

The oversized plasma screen came to life, an image of a ruined building occupying the majority of the screen, the letters SHS clearly visible on the portion of the front promenade still standing.  "We believe this area will be the staging point for the initial incursion.  Analysis of the archives from the abortive American military presence in Sunnydale, California indicates that beneath this collapsed structure exists a portal, a hellmouth, if you will."  The priest again surveyed the crowd, locking eyes with the Archbishop of Canterbury, the head of the Anglican Church.  Nodding once to his colleague, he continued:  "Recent signs have borne witness to certain prophesized events.  You are all familiar with the occurrences of the past week.  No doubt you have seen the reports regarding the current status of the Tigris and Euphrates."  The crowd silently nodded its assent.  They had all seen the overhead imagery of the Middle-Eastern rivers, a portion of their waters turned to blood, killing all life it touched, human included.  Great pains had been taken to conceal this fact from the general public; cover stories concerning industrial contamination had been generated to conceal the true nature of the affliction.

The Archbishop continued on.  "It has been decided by closed session of the U.N. Security Council that overt military action at this point would be counterproductive.  To take this course of action would incite widespread panic and result in needless death and suffering.  Therefore, the Vatican has taken the initiative of sending an emissary to Sunnydale to assess the situation firsthand."  The priest did not elaborate on the nature of the emissary's mission, nor did he reveal the identity of their man.  Best not to needlessly expose either their representative or the Slayer at this juncture, at least until it was absolutely necessary.  He continued, "Pending the initial assessment, we will coordinate with representatives of the world's armed forces to formulate a course of action.  When engagement becomes imminent, it has been agreed that combined surgical military strikes will be utilized in order to limit civilian casualties.  As we speak, representatives of the Watcher's Council are working closely with our own scholars in the hope of finding a means to avert the coming battle.  If we can succeed in binding the hellmouth, that is to say close it for good, then we will be able to stem the flow of the Fallen Ones into this world, and fight them on our own terms.  If we are not successful in closing the hellmouth, then our forces shall engage them in Sunnydale.  For practical reasons, the United States Department of Defense will be in overall military command during the initial phases.  If the enemy cannot be contained, then the Security Council shall reassess the situation at the appropriate time.  Ladies and gentleman,  we have much work to do and precious little time to do it.  I need not remind you that we are the last line of defense.  If the Slayer and her team are unsuccessful, we are all that stands between the world and Armageddon.  Good luck to all of you, and may God have mercy on our souls."

The Archbishop stepped down to polite applause, pausing to shake a few hands and exchange pleasantries.  He quickly excused himself from the gathering, slipping through an ornate pair of oaken double doors.  He walked quickly for a man of his age, and presently found himself in a spacious drawing room.  Here he found the his Anglican counterpart deep in thought, puffing away determinedly on a large Cuban cigar.  

"I apologize for the delay, Edward.  It appears that even in times of peril one must observe certain protocols."

"It's quite alright, my friend.  I needed I few moments of reflection."

Both men fell silent for a short while, in spite of the fact that they had much to discuss.  The Italian was the first to break the silence.  "I am concerned, of course, about the Slayer.  She is but a young girl, and she has literally had the weight of the world thrust on her shoulders.  There is only so much a person can take."

Edward nodded in agreement.  "I understand your concern Michael.  We must remind ourselves that she is not alone in this fight.  She has her friends to help her, and she will have our support, even if she is not aware of it.  I should think that your man in Sunnydale will be of invaluable assistance as well."

"As always, Edward, you are the voice of reason.  However, I still entertain doubts about our present situation.  I worry that there are those in our coalition who are wavering, those who, if the outcome were to appear unfavorable, might feel compelled to seek an armistice with the enemy.  We mustn't forget that our will to prevail is only as strong as that of our weakest member.  Already there are rumblings of dissent within the ranks.  It would appear that some of our Asian brethren would rather go it alone."

"We have little choice in the matter, Michael.  It is written:  _"…and the various races shall stand as one."_  You have read the scrolls as thoroughly as I.  As it is written, so it shall be.  We must accept this and do our best.  At any rate, we have other matters to attend to."

The Italian sighed deeply.  "You know Edward, that the Vatican does not desire to become embroiled in internal political affairs.  The leadership agrees that the Council Elders have been grossly derelict in their duties, especially in regard to the Slayers.  But the Vatican has lost much of its influence due to our current "difficulties" in America.  We can ill afford to further damage our reputation with what could be perceived as a power grab."

"We understand the Pope's reticence in this matter, Michael.  The bottom line is that the Watchers' Council has divided loyalties, and cannot be allowed to compromise the integrity of our mission.  We only require the Vatican's tacit approval to effect the removal of Travers and the others.  The political machinations will of course be handled internally."

Michael nodded his resignation.  "Then I am authorized to tell you that you will have the full support of the Vatican when you make your move.  I trust that you have already hand-picked Quentin's successor?"

The Englishman nodded.  "Yes I have, provided he survives the coming battle.  I have no doubt he will insist on fighting alongside his Slayer.  Mr. Giles can be quite stubborn that way."

End of Chapter 3.   Thanks again to all who have read and reviewed.  I hope you're enjoying my little vision of BTVS.  The action should pick up in the next few chapters, as Buffy and Xander finally have it out, the Scoobies have an encounter with the man in black, and that pesky overgrown mosquito known as Spike crawls back into Sunnydale.  The storm clouds are gathering folks, and it's gonna get ugly.  You've been warned.

As always, please keep the feedback coming.  I'm fast becoming a junkie, and I need my fix.  

That's it for now.

Until next time,

Rabid Squirrel


	4. It Happened One Night, and Once or Twice...

_Author:_  Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_:   "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaimer:_  If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction?  Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_  Follow-up to the travesty that was season 6.  Answers questions such as:  Why Spike is able to hit Buffy; why did Xander really leave Anya at the alter; where does Whistler get his wardrobe; and just what really is in a hot dog.  (Just kidding about the hot dog – nobody knows what they hell they put in those)

_Spoilers:_  Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.  Also, this may be a crossover at some point, though I make no guarantees.

_Rating:   _R, for violence, strong language, sexual content, and the untimely demise of cute little puppies and bunny rabbits.  

_Dedication_:  To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.

_Feedback:_  As always, constructive criticism and positive feedback are more than welcome.  I also accept flames; I use them to light my cigarettes.  Special thanks to RobClark, Finn Mac Cool, lwbush (modesty becomes you), de profuundis, Ghostrider, and all others who have taken the time to read and review this little work of fiction.  I'm glad you came along for the ride.  

_Note__:  _I don't know if anybody noticed, but the timeline in this story is somewhat skewed.  The first chapter took place during the present day, at the time of posting late July.  I then somehow skipped to August 24.  I sometimes wonder where my mind is, but then I remember – it's usually in the gutter.  Anyway, on with chapter 4…

Chapter 4 

**Sunnydale California  
August 24, 2002**

**Xander's Apartment**

Alexander Harris had a number of dreams that night.   As a peaceful slumber claimed him, his heart rate slowed drastically, and his breathing became more rhythmic and less frequent.  Shortly thereafter, he entered a stage of semi-consciousness known as REM – Rapid Eye Movement.  He lay in bed asleep, unaware of the scenes playing out in his head.  Thoughts that had plagued him during his waking hours came back to the forefront, his hopes, dreams and fears coming alive in his sub-conscious mind.  Remarkably enough, Xander would remember none of it.

When he woke the next morning, Xander was keenly aware of two things:  1) He hadn't slept this well in a very long time, and 2)  There was a naked redhead lying in his arms.  Ordinarily, both would be welcome revelations, especially the latter.  However, as it was, unnecessary complications were no longer welcome in his life.  His life was screwed up enough as it was.  At times like these,  Xander very much envied the coyote.  If it were possible to chew off his arm to escape this extremely awkward situation, he would gladly do so.  Unfortunately, human instinct, or the complete lack of it [according to socio-biologists], precluded him from doing so.  It wasn't that this was a coyote-ugly situation; that is, it wasn't as if he were trying to escape the aftermath of a an unpleasant one-night stand.  After all, the sex had been incredible, possibly even mind-blowing, and not even a blind man could accuse Willow of being anything less than beautiful.  No, it was just that a fleeting moment of passion had once again altered his relationship with Willow, and that was not something he had the energy to deal with this morning.  

Carefully extricating himself from the slumbering redhead, Xander slid out of bed, silently making his way to the bathroom.  He needed a hot shower to clear his head…or maybe a cold shower – he wasn't exactly sure which at this point.  Xander scampered into the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind him.  Flipping on the light switch, he paused to glance at himself in the mirror.  What he saw was not a pretty sight.  Though his wounds had largely healed, the scars on his chest were still quite prominent.  The sheer force of Willow's attack had badly injured him, and still caused him a great deal of pain, both physical and psychological.  He had tried to conceal his wounds from Willow, but the previous night's escapades had made that an effort in futility.  Though she didn't mention it, Xander knew she had to have noticed them, and he felt guilty for letting her do so.  She didn't need a physical reminder of what she had done.  The guilt she carried with her was more than enough.  

Shaking his head at his latest predicament, he pulled open the shower curtain and stepped inside.  The spray of hot water that followed shortly thereafter was just what the doctor ordered.  Xander stood motionless beneath the hot stream of water, letting it cascade over him, washing his worries away.  _Hmmm, steam good.  Hot water good.  Sex with best friend problematic.  _Obviously he wasn't going to get past that concept anytime soon.  Willow had assured him that it didn't mean anything, other than that they were two people who loved each other and who were badly in need of a little coital bliss.  Naked Willow could be very persuasive that way.  But Xander still had lingering doubts.  He knew he wasn't in love with Willow.  She was more like a sister to him…one that he had sex with?  _OK, disturbing mental picture.  Not a sister, more like a close friend, a very close friend.  _Besides, his heart belonged to someone else; always had, since that fateful first day his sophomore year_.  Damn her.  Damn Buffy Summers for making me fall in love with her.   _Was it possible to love and hate someone at the same time?  It had to be, since right now he rued the day he had met the diminutive Slayer.  He had given her his heart and soul, had always watched her back, even after she had utterly rejected him.  He had been there for her in her darkest hour, and how had she repaid him?  She spit in his face.  She gave herself to a soulless beast, time and again, while lying to him and Willow, telling them everything was fine.  When she was hurting inside, she didn't turn to the people who loved her most.  No, she turned to the one who had caused her so much pain, who had tried to kill her time and again.  And in spite of it all, he still loved her.  _Spike was wrong, _Xander muttered underneath his breath.  _He's not love's bitch.  Hands down – the title belongs to me. _

Turning off the faucet, Xander reached for a towel, drying himself as he stepped from the shower.  Wrapping the towel around his waist, he walked back into the bedroom  Willow was still fast asleep, thank God for small wonders.  _Still not ready to deal with that little peccadillo. Pathetic much Xander?  _Quickly pulling on his boxers and a worn pair of Levi's, he ventured over to the kitchen in search of breakfast.  _Finally, something I can manage to do right.  _He hadn't made it halfway when he was stopped dead in his tracks by the sound of a knock at the door.  _Who the hell could that be?  It's Saturday morning.  Everyone knows better that to bother me on…..oh shit.  I almost forgot.  Dawn and Buffy were coming over to see Willow.  Yessiree, everything's coming up roses today for Xander Harris.  _Cursing softly to himself, Xander crossed over the living room to the front door.  He swung it open, only to be run down by the sixteen year-old blur of energy known as Dawn Summers.  

"Hey Xand-man, what's the what?  Broken any hearts lately?"  In spite of himself, Xander couldn't help but smile.  The girl had a certain directness that never ceased to remind him of Cordelia.  Only with Dawn, that trait was at least partially endearing.  The smile didn't last long.  As he looked back towards the door, his eyes fell on Buffy, and his face dropped again.   He quickly recovered though, replacing his genuine smile with a cheap imitation.

"Dawn, Buffy.  What brings you to casa del Harris at this ungodly hour?  The world's not ending is it?  'Cause if it is, I'm going back to bed and catching a couple z's."

Dawn didn't answer him.  She was mesmerized by the spectacle that was a shirtless Alexander Harris.  _God, construction certainly agrees with him.  He looks absolutely yummy.  Not that he looked bad before, but, DAMN, he looks good.  _Dawn had noticed the scars, but was not repulsed in the least  If anything, they only accentuated his manliness, at least in her mind.  Not that she still had a crush on him.  A crush was something a little kid entertained.  She was an adult.  _This isn't a crush – I'm over that.  I am merely admiring a fine physical specimen, _Dawn rationalized to herself.  _But if he's still single when I turn 18…._

Sensing Dawn's preoccupation, Buffy chimed in.  "Nope, all's abnormal on the Hellmouth.  We just dropped by to see how you guys were doing."  The expression on Xander's face when he had opened the door had not gone unnoticed by Buffy, though she mentally willed herself to ignore it.  "Speaking of you guys, where's Willow?"  

Feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar, Xander managed to choke out a response.  "She's uh, still in bed I think.  She didn't get much sleep last night."  That much was true.  Their sexual decathlon had lasted into the wee hours of the morning.

Dawn finally found her voice.  "Xander Harris, the first one up on a Saturday morning?  Maybe the world is coming to an end.  Oh, and while we're on the subject of unusual things, Buffy and I are millionaires."  

"….Says the queen of non-sequitors," deadpanned Buffy, not surprised that Dawn had been the first to broach the subject of their newfound wealth.

"You're what?"  Xander asked, momentarily stunned.  After twenty-one years on the Hellmouth, few things could surprise him.  Dawn's revelation was one of those things.

"Millionaires," Dawn explained patiently.  "We went to ATM before breakfast this morning, withdrew fifty bucks, and still had a million and change left in our account."

"And you didn't think this was the least bit unusual?" Xander asked, his suspicious nature kicking into overdrive.

"Well, actually," Buffy began, only to be cut off by her sister.

"I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.  Buffy, on the other hand, insisted on talking to the bank manager.  She told him there must be some kind of mistake.  In retrospect, I think Willow must have screwed up the spell.  Obviously Buffy's brain is still dead." 

Both Xander and Buffy ignored the latter part of Dawn's comment.  "So what happened?  Where'd you two Scoobies get all those scoobies?  Oh wait, Let me guess.  You two have taken to drug dealing and money laundering, maybe a little pimping on the side?  C'mon, fess up you little felons.  The X-man is on to you."

Dawn laughed at the latest Xanderism, while Buffy tried her best to explain the situation.  "That's what I tried to find out.  Only the bank told me there was no mistake.  And when I asked them where it came from, do you know what they said?"

"Obviously not," came the exasperated reply from Dawn.

Buffy shot her a dirty look, then continued the story. "They said they couldn't divulge that information.  Can you believe it?  Over a million dollars mysteriously appears in our account, and they won't tell us anything about it.  This could only happen in Sunnydale."

Looking the Slayer in the eyes for the first time that morning, Xander offered his two cents worth.  "Well Buff, I think I'm gonna hafta agree with the Dawnster on this one.  I'd take the money and run.  This kind of opportunity doesn't come along every day."

Seeing that she was clearly outvoted, Buffy acquiesced.  "We could use some of the money to pay off the mortgage.  And pay our bills.  And buy a new car.  And maybe I could go back to school…."  Buffy's voice trailed off as she considered the possibilities in her mind.  This money really could help make their lives easier, better even.  Her musings were interrupted by the disembodied voice that came drifting from the bedroom.  

"Xand, are you out there?  Why don't you join me in the shower – I'll let you do my back."  Willow suddenly appeared in the doorway, wearing nothing but a sheet, a playful grin on her face.  Then she spotted the visitors.  She was not expecting to see Buffy and Willow.  

"Oh God, I'm sorry.  I didn't know you guys were here..."   

The reactions of the other three Scoobies to the latest revelation were varied, to say the least.  Dawn's eyes immediately became as wide as saucers, as the implication of what had happened dawned on her.  _That little….witch, _she thought.  _Having her way with my not-quite future husband.  _

As for Xander, he simply froze.  He could see the look in Buffy's eyes, the obvious disappointment and betrayal she felt .  He felt terrible, not because he had taken advantage of a vulnerable Willow, but because he had hurt Buffy, even if he didn't quite understand how he had done so, or why it bothered him so much.  His eyes met Willow's, and he saw her mouth the word sorry_.  You and me both, _he thought.

Buffy's heart skipped a beat, and then another.  Time seemed to stand still as she looked from Willow to Xander, and back again.  _They had sex, _it belatedly dawned on her. _ He made love to her.  He made love to Willow.  _Xander wasn't the type for one-night stands, at least not since Faith, and Buffy knew it.  _Could he be in love with her?  Had he already moved on?  _The shock was too much for Buffy, though for the life of her she couldn't understand why.  _It's just Xander.  Why do I feel this way?  What the hell  is happening to me?  _Buffy felt her chest constricting.  She couldn't breathe.  "Oh my God," she finally stammered.  "Oh God."

Xander knew he had to say something.  "Buffy, let me explain…."  He started, only to be cut off by an inexplicably distraught Slayer.  

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't know.I-I should go.  We should go."  Buffy grabbed Dawn by the arm, bodily dragging her out the door behind her.  Dawn threw an apologetic look Xander's way, then stumbled out the door after her sister.  Xander immediately moved to follow them, but stopped when Willow laid a hand on his arm.

"Let her go Xander," she said softly.  "She needs time to think."

Xander nodded slightly, his head hung dejectedly as he watched the Jeep tear out of the driveway and speed out of sight.

**Aboard the Freighter _Tunis_**

**Somewhere in the Atlantic**

The container ship had left Benghazi the previous day, with scheduled ports of call in Oran and Havana.  He didn't know what cargo it carried, other than himself of course.  As far as he was concerned, that was the only cargo that mattered.  He glanced perfunctorily at the clock on the bulkhead, though the action was entirely unnecessary.  He could smell the sunset long before it came.  Grabbing his trademark black duster, Spike proceeded to make his way above decks.   

One had to be careful when on the ocean, especially one with an aversion to sunlight.  The infinitely flat horizon provided for an interminably long sunset, beautiful though it was to Spike.  It was a common myth that vampires never witnessed either sunrises or sunsets.  It was an easy assumption to make.  The truth of the matter was, as long as a vampire's skin wasn't directly exposed to the sunlight, sunburn wasn't really an issue.  Spike had occasionally allowed himself to watch the sunset, and, on rarer occasions, to watch it rise, though the precautions necessary for the latter were extensive indeed.  Spike enjoyed a chuckle as he remembered a movie he had once seen, wherein a vampire hunter and his lady friend had used an artificial ultraviolet light to burn a vampire.  _Movies, _he grumbled, _they never get it right.  Someday somebody'll make a movie about me.  The Watchers Council, perhaps? A precautionary instructional video for Slayers? _The thought greatly appealed to him.

Leaning against the railing, Spike enjoyed the view off the port bow, shielding his cigarette against the ocean spray.  He hadn't been to Havana since his last exile from Sunnydale, though he still remembered the sights and sounds.  Mostly though, he remembered a certain Voodoo priestess, a shriveled old woman with a gift for the black arts.  She would fix him, make him whole again.  And then he would fix the Slayer.

**15,000 feet AGL**

**Groom Lake, Nevada**

**100 miles from Las Vegas**

The AH-66 Comanche flew almost silently through the darkness, its composite main rotor and embedded tail rotor generating surprisingly little noise as they cut through the thin night air.  The two General Electric turbines were humming along at 80% throttle, propelling the low-observable aircraft eastward at nearly 180 knots.  It had been a good night for  Chief Warrant Officer Clancy Thomas.  The unofficial war game scenario played out at the Nellis range had been a resounding success, even if it was only for show.  He and two other Comanche pilots had penetrated the range's outer perimeter, the combination of their low flight path and radar-absorbing black matte paint concealing them from the Patriot battery's search radar long enough to reach the flight line, where, much to his surprise, they found two complete squadrons of F-15 Eagles parked on the tarmac.  _Lambs to the slaughter, _the CWO mused, remembering the turkey shoot that had ensued.  The three attack helicopters had blown down the line, [simulated] 20mm cannons blazing.  Within thirty seconds, fully half of the aircraft compliment below had been destroyed, at least according to the onboard computer.  The three had quickly egressed  the area, though one of their number had fallen victim to a lone F-15 Charlie flying low CAP (combat air patrol).  Clancy almost felt sorry for his fellow aviator.  Eagle jockeys were notoriously cocky, and this one would be even more so after administratively shooting down the $80 million chopper.  At least he wouldn't have to hear about it.

The war game had been a cover to get the Comanches to their real destination, the unremarkable stretch of dry lake bed known simply as Area 51.  Officially, the facility at Groom Lake had existed for only four years, though in truth the first runway had been put down nearly 50 years earlier to accommodate the initial flight testing of the Lockheed U-2.  Area 51 was currently used to test advanced weapons concepts, though many its blacker-than-black programs had since been relocated to White Sands to escape intense public scrutiny.  The dearth of activity at the airbase made it a prime candidate for its present function, the home base for the 666 Air Battle Wing.  _Somebody must have a sense of humor, _Clancy mused, remarking on the Wing's unit designation, the ostensible mark of the Antichrist.  It did have a certain transcendent irony to it.  After all, they were the last line of defense against the forces of evil, or so he had been told in the briefing.  He still wasn't sure he believed it all.  

Clancy Thomas had never been an overly religious man.  Prior to his acceptance at West Point, he had never even been to church, and to be honest, he had rarely attended services during his time at the New York Academy.  Desert Storm had changed that.  During the initial phases of the Gulf war, his Air Cavalry Regiment, the 160th,  had been tasked with seeking out and destroying mobile anti-aircraft platforms attached to an Iraqi Republican Guards division.  During the first such sortie, the squawking of his threat receiver had alerted him to the presence of an SA-6 missile at his six o'clock.  Clancy had muttered a quick prayer to God, shoved the collective stick forward, and dove for the deck.  The Russian-made missile had passed within twenty feet of his aircraft, but the warhead had not detonated.  Either the proximity fuse was defective, or God had heard his prayer.  From then on, he had chosen to hedge his bet.  He attended Mass every Sunday.

Dropping down through 1000 feet, he could see the flashing red landing lights surrounding the helipad below.  He continued his descent, dropping down to fifty feet before leveling off.  Clancy reduced his airspeed to almost nothing, hauling back on the collective, the nose of the chopper flaring slightly before the landing gear touched down gently on the tarmac.  Another perfect landing.

The pilot completed the post-flight checklist, spooling down the powerful turbines.  As the wheels were chocked, a Sr. Airman pulled up in a black Humvee, standing by to escort the pilot to the ready-room for the unit briefing.  Clancy climbed down from the bird, jogged over to the truck, and jumped in the passenger side.  Without so much as a word, the driver took off, speeding through the still night toward their destination.  He gazed out the tinted window, trying to get a feel for the size of the base, and failing miserably.  The base had been designed to fool the human eye; the majority of the infrastructure and facilities were located below ground.  Only a few aircraft hangars and associated structures marred the otherwise unbroken landscape on the surface.  Few aircraft were visible, partly due to chance, partly due to the Chinese photoreconnaissance satellite scheduled to pass overhead in a few minutes.

As they passed one of the few visible aircraft, Clancy was surprised to see a C-5 tasked to the military airlift command.  Two M1-A2 main battle tanks were currently being off-loaded from the giant transport plane.  He could also see various types of munitions being unloaded, mostly of the air-to-ground variety.  From the cargo hold, bright lights bathed the immediate area in white glow, gleaming off the numerous metal bomb casings.  He recognized most of the munitions, and his heart nearly stopped as his eyes fell on two seemingly ordinary one-thousand pound bombs.  Looks can be deceiving, as was the case here.  These two weapons were known as B-61 gravity bombs.  And though they only weighed half a ton apiece, their combined yield was equal  to two-hundred thousand tons of TNT.  They were nukes.

_What the hell have I gotten myself into?_

_End of chapter 4.  Thanks to all who have read and reviewed.  I am really enjoying writing this story.  It's been cathartic.    One note:  The last part of this chapter is loosely based on a short excerpt of Tom Clancy's "Debt of Honor".  If you haven't read any of his work before, I highly recommend it.  The man can tell a story. _

_Chapter 5 should be out sometime late this week.  My work schedule has mellowed out some, so I have more time to write (says the guy who is writing this at 2 in the morning).  I'm not sure what we'll see in the next chapter, though it will probably include a heart-to-heart between Xander and Willow, perhaps another between Dawn and Buffy, as well as the return of Whistler's enigmatic friend, and perhaps the return of Spike.  I'm thinking about bringing in some characters from Angel, though it would likely be limited to Wolfram and Hart.  Let me know what you all think._

_Also, I'm having some trouble with formatting (double spacing where it's not wanted!).  I've been writing this in HTM format.  If anyone has any suggestion to correct this little problem, I would be grateful.  That's it for now._

_Until next time,_

_Rabid Squirrel_


	5. Hints, Allegations, and Things Better Le...

_Author:_  Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_:   "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaimer:_  If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction?  Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_  Follow-up to the travesty that was season 6.  Answers questions such as:  Why Spike is able to hit Buffy; why did Xander really leave Anya at the alter; where does Whistler get his wardrobe; and just what really is in a hot dog.  (Just kidding about the hot dog – nobody knows what they hell they put in those)

_Spoilers:_  Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.  Also, this may be a crossover at some point, though I make no guarantees.

_Rating:   _R, for violence, strong language, sexual content, and the untimely demise of cute little puppies and bunny rabbits.  

_Dedication_:  To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.

_Feedback:_  As always, constructive criticism and positive feedback are more than welcome.  I also accept flames; I use them to light my cigarettes.  Thanks to RobClark, Finn Mac Cool, lwbush, de profuundis, Ghostrider, Aquila, WBH21C and all the others who have taken the time to read and review this little work of fiction.  I'm glad you came along for the ride.  

_Note__:  _ Thanks to WBH21C for keeping me straight by pointing out that the Comanche is not a single seat aircraft.  See kids, it pays to do your homework.  It makes you look all smart and stuff.  Also, I apologize for the slow pace of the story.  I felt the need to address the touchy-feely subjects before moving on to the rest of the story.  Things should pick up in the next chapter.

Chapter 5 Somewhere on the streets of Sunnydale 

In her two short years of existence, Dawn Summers had often known fear.  She'd been attacked by demons, pursued by a homicidal army of knights, and hounded by a fashion conscious goddess hell-bent on destroying the world.  And yet, she had never feared for her life as much as she did at this moment.

"Um, Buffy, that little red sign with the white border – you know, the one that says stop on it?  You, uh, didn't by any chance see it did you…… cause if you did, you maybe should have considered stopping." 

If Buffy had heard her sister, she gave no indication.  Instead, she stomped down on the throttle, accelerating the Jeep past 60 mph, slightly in excess of  the posted limit of 25.   Dawn's hands gripped the armrest tightly, threatening to tear through the faded leather upholstery.  _God_; _Why do these things always happen to me?  _She quickly scanned the road ahead, thankful that it was relatively free of obstructions – relatively being the operative word.  There were people about; not many, but enough to pose a problem.  "You know, just for once, couldn't you choose a more convenient time to go all schizoid on me? I would like to see my 18th birthday, if that's all right with you?"  Still no response.  _OK, so much for pleading with her.  At least we don't have far to go – only two miles more; what could possibly happen?_

Fate chose the worst possible moment to intervene, as was her practice.  A flash of movement from the left caught Dawn's eye, a flash she quickly discerned to be a small child running into the street.  "Buffy look out!" she screamed, lunging to grab the steering wheel.  Buffy moved faster.  Acting purely on instinct, she slammed on the brakes, simultaneously jerking the wheel to the right, directing 2 tons of skidding steel over the curb and onto the sidewalk.  The Jeep momentarily left the ground, touching down again in the grass on the far side of the sidewalk.  Buffy immediately whipped the wheel back to the left, narrowly avoiding a large elm tree.  They swerved back onto the road, leaving  a pair of skid marks and one very startled seven year-old in their wake.   Dawn counted to three, then opened her eyes again.  _OK, I'm still breathing, and Buffy's still driving, albeit like a maniac, but still driving.  I guess I'm still alive.  _Dawn pinched herself just to be sure.  "Ouch."  _Okay, that settles it.  Still  alive._  Dawn entertained a glance at the dashboard.  Despite the near miss, Buffy hadn't eased of the accelerator a bit.  "Uh, Buff.  Not sure if you're up to speed on the ole slayer handbook, but I'm pretty certain you're supposed to protect people, not turn them into road kill.  You may wanna try easing up on the gas."

Still, Buffy said nothing.

Dawn had almost reached the limit of her patience.  "Jesus, could you possibly have any more issues?"  No sooner had the words left her mouth, than another movement caught her eye, this time from the passenger side.  "Buffy….," she yelled again, but was too late.  A loud thump could be heard as the Cherokee's front passenger-side tire struck a living, breathing creature, killing the hapless victim instantly.  Buffy stared straight ahead at the road, even as she felt her sister's incredulous gaze upon her. Dawn glanced over at her sister, shaking her head in disbelief.  "Congratulations sis, you just killed the Easter Bunny.  I hope you're satisfied."  

"Dawn," Buffy said, speaking at last, "do me a favor and shut the hell up.  I'm trying to drive."

"Maybe you should try a little harder," Dawn mumbled to herself.

"I heard you."

"That'd be a first."

"Dammit Dawn, would you drop it already?  I'm not in the mood!"

Dawn had had enough.  "Have it your way," she said, reaching out to grab the door handle.  She unlatched her seat belt with her left hand, simultaneously opening the door with her right.  Buffy's eyes went wide as she saw what Dawn was up to.  She slammed on the brakes, reaching out to grab her sister.  "Dawn, what the hell do you think you're doing.  You're gonna get yourself killed."

Dawn snorted in disgust at her sister. "As opposed to staying in here and letting you kill me? I think I'll pass."

Buffy was stunned.  "Dawn, I would never do anything to hurt you.  You know that."

Dawn raised an eyebrow at her sister's assertation.  "I suppose that little impromptu driving demonstration was for my benefit?  Wait, don't tell me, it was the rabbit wasn't it?  It was an evil rabbit.   The shifty eyes are always a dead giveaway.  You saved my life again, Buff.

"God Dawn, do you always have be so sarcastic?"

"Tool's of the trade, sis.  You use stakes, I use sarcasm.  It's my thing."

"I'm tempted use my stakes right about now.…"  Subtlety was a skill the Slayer had not mastered.

"Again with the trying to kill me.   Hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, Buffy, but if you want me dead, you're gonna have to take a number.  Killing me seems to be a popular theme these days."

"Look Dawn, I…"  Before Buffy could finish, she was cut off by a barrage of blaring horns from the cars stopped  behind them.  Extending her arm out the window, she flipped them the bird.    Buffy put the Jeep in gear and turned to her sister.  "We'll talk about this later.  We're going home"

"No."

"No?  We're not going home?"

"No."

"What?"

"We're going to talk about this now, Buffy.  With our track record, there's no guarantee we'll be alive later, so we'll talk now."

"Morbid much?"

"Not morbid. Practical.  We live on the Hellmouth, and we both seem to have a genetic predisposition to attracting mayhem, ergo the whole carpe diem thingy.  We can't afford to put off anything important – the world may end tomorrow for all we know."

"Dawn, just so you know, you have absolutely no future as a motivational speaker."

"That's okay,"  Dawn confessed, "I've always had my heart set on being a florist."  The look that comment elicited from her sister was classic.  "God Buffy, chill, I'm joking!  I've never wanted to be a florist.  I'm not crazy…well – maybe just a little.   All kidding aside, we really do need to talk about what happened.  And please, don't interrupt.  Buffy, I-I know you would never intentionally do anything to hurt me.  I mean, I can't count the number of times you've saved my life these past two years, even after I purposely disobeyed you.  And I'm also aware that the past year hasn't exactly been a walk in the park for you…"

Buffy sighed, an inscrutable expression on her face.  "It has been a rough couple of years."

"The worst," Dawn agreed.

"I died," lamented Buffy.

"You had your soul torn out of heaven."

"I miss mom."

"So do I."

"Dad's a bastard."

"Agreed."

"I slept with Spike."

"More than once." 

"I'm a college dropout flipping burgers at the Doublemeat Palace."

"For seven dollars an hour."

"I hate that place."

"Ditto."

"Tara died, and I almost did…"

"Again."

"Xander left Anya at the altar."

"Spike tried to rape you."

"Xander hates me."

"And you're in love with him."

"And I'm in love with him," Buffy repeated.  "Wait…what did you say?"

_Checkmate.  _"You said it sis – you're in love with Xander."

"I am not!  I am not in love with Xander Harris.  I mean, yeah, I love Xander, but I'm not in love with him.  He's my platonic, Xander-shaped friend…at least I still think he is."

Dawn was not convinced.  "Right.  And that little psychotic episode you just had was a completely rational reaction to Willow and Xander sleeping together."

"Look, I admit that I was a little thrown by it…"

"A little?  Christ Buffy, you make postal workers look sane."

"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I was a little thrown at first.  I just think it's too soon for either of them to be getting involved, especially with each other.  They've gone down that road before, at look where it got them."

"And this has nothing to do with the fact that you're jealous of Willow?"

"I'm not jealous of Willow," said Buffy, pulling into the driveway.  "I'm concerned that they're making a mistake.  Willow lost Tara only a month ago, and Xander still has unresolved issues with Anya."

"He's not the only one with unresolved issues."

Buffy turned off the Jeep's engine and turned to look at her sister.  "You're right Dawn, he's not the only one with issues.  But mine don't involve Xander."

"Buffy, like it or not, everything you do involves Xander.  He's a big part of your life, and he always will be, whether you admit your feelings for him or not."

"Dawn, could we please find another subject, preferably one that doesn't involve Xander."

"We could always talk about sex…." Dawn offered.

"Xander it is."

"Glad we settled that.  _Damn girl, you're good.  You're very good. _ 

"So…where were we?"

"Well, since you're obviously in denial about your feelings for Xander, we're gonna have to try a different tack.  It looks like we need to have the talk."

"The talk?"  

"Yes, Buffy, the talk," Dawn replied, an exaggerated sigh escaping her mouth.  "You're old enough now that you need to understand certain things.  And since Mom isn't around to tell you about them, the responsibility falls to me, your younger but wiser and infinitely more attractive sister.

"What in the hell are you…..Oh God, you're talking about sex aren't you.  I swear Dawn, if you can possibly tell me anything about that I don't already know, I will personally strangle every guy who's ever laid eyes on you."

Dawn just smiled at the thought, a devilish glint in her eye.  Wisely, though, she didn't broach that particular subject.  "No Buffy.  This isn't about the birds and the bees.  It's about the Buffys and the Xanders."

"Uh, Dawn, you're making the kind of sense that's not."  In truth, it made perfect sense, though Buffy did not want to hear it, especially not from her younger, _less attractive_ sister.

"Oh please, spare me the oblivious act.  I can read you like newspaper big sis.  You're a lousy liar, always have been.  You know damn well what I'm talking about, so don't try to pretend otherwise."  Dawn was actually enjoying this little tirade.  The view was much better from the moral high ground.

"Dawn, you have no idea what you're talking about.   I will say it one more time for the cheap seats.  I am not now, nor have I ever been, in love with Xander Harris.  Please.   I mean, look at his track record:  Cordy, Faith, Anya.  Please.   A little over a month ago he was engaged to be married, and now he's sleeping with Willow, who just buried her girlfriend.  Do you honestly believe I could love someone like that?  Please, give me some credit."

Dawn laughed in amazement.  Could her own sister really be this clueless?  How had she managed to survive this long?  Certainly not by her wits.  She didn't have any, at least not that Dawn could see.  __

"Yeah, Xander's such a terrible person.  Always there watching your back, making you laugh when things get a little too tense, helping you pick up the pieces of your life when everything falls apart, not to mention looking after your little sister when you're dead.  He can be such a bastard that way.  And what he did to poor helpless Willow:  Taking care of her night and day, being there for her when she needed him the most, even after she tried to kill him.  I'll bet the miserable son-of-a-bitch even gave her multiple orgasms.  I swear, he can be so selfish like that."  Dawn studiously ignored the murderous look her sister was giving her.  Buffy had made her bed.  Now it was time to lie in it.  "I mean, Willow sounded sooo broken up this morning.  You know, I'll bet he took advantage of her several times last night.  Probably at least three or four times, don't you think Buff?  

"Right now I'm thinking that you have about three seconds to live."  Buffy said in a very matter-of-fact tone.

"That's OK.  I talk fast.  You wanna know the truth, Buffy?  Here it is:  I think you've been miserable for so damn long that you forgot what it's like to be happy.  And now I think that the very thought of being truly happy scares you. You've lost so much the past few years that you're afraid of losing anyone or anything else.   The truth of it is that while you may be able to protect me from whatever goes bump in the night, you have no idea how to protect yourself.  You can't safeguard your own heart from the pain, so you play the martyr.  You do things to hurt yourself, to push everyone away, to keep from feeling anything.  You slept with Spike, not because he made you feel something, but because he made you feel nothing.   The truth of the matter is Buffy, you may have crawled out of that grave,  but a part of you is still dead.

"Dawn, you don't.." Buffy began.

"I'm not finished," Dawn snapped, then resumed her lecture.  "You're not angry at me.  I know that.  You're angry at yourself, because the rational part of you – the part that knows you can be happy and wants to fight for it – is afraid that you just might have missed your chance.  Well you know what, I hope it's true.  It would serve you right if Xander has moved on.  He's been right there in front of you for so long, and you never allowed yourself to really see him.  You never acknowledged the true Xander, the person he really was.  He gave you so much and never asked for anything in return, except for your friendship.  You took for granted that he would always be there.  He's your safety net, Buffy, and you're scared to death that you just might lose it."

"I don't have to listen to this," Buffy said, though she didn't sound too convinced.

"No, you don't," Dawn conceded, her voice softer than before.  "You can go on being miserable.  You can spend your life alone, never allowing anyone to really love you.  And someday, when you're dying at the hands of some godforsaken demon, you can lie there as your life flashes before your eyes and wonder to yourself why you never took the chance, why you never allowed yourself to love him.  Is that what you really want?  Cause if it is, let me congratulate you on doing a first-rate job."

"I'm not miserable, Dawn, and I'm not alone.  I still have you," Buffy temporized, not quite ready to admit the truth to herself.

"Buffy, I adore you and I love you more than anything in the world, but it's not the same thing.  You need someone who can make you happy, who can give you the life you need and deserve.  You need someone to be your rock, to anchor you to the world.  Look in your heart, Buffy, and I think you'll see what I do – that person is Xander.  Ok that's it, that's my spiel.  I won't say another word about Buffy/Xander, although I do have to say one last thing, or I'll never forgive myself.  Xander's not going to wait around forever.  Sooner or later he's going to move on.  And let me remind you that I'll be 18 in two years, and then the things I fantasize about doing to Xander will no longer remain just fantasies…"

"Dawn!" Buffy shouted, shocked by what her sister had just said.  "When did you become such a pervert?"

"Well, let's see.  I'm a sexually repressed sixteen year-old girl who lived with two horny lesbians, and whose sister screws more vampires than she kills.  I'd say it was fate."

Despite the vampire comment (and for the record she had only slept with 2), Buffy couldn't help but laugh at her sister's observation.  It was hard to stay mad at Dawn, irritating though she may be.  She could not however, let that comment go unchallenged.  "Just for the record, Dawn, I'd like to point out that I'm not the only one in this family who's dated a vampire."

"You've got me there.  But, unlike you, at least I learned my lesson the first time around.  Besides, I'm not into necrophilia.  I like my men with a pulse."  

The amusement was beginning to wear thin for Buffy.  "Dawn, you know how you sometimes cross the line and don't realize it?  I think maybe this is one of those times.  Just a thought"  

Dawn nodded her head obediently. "Duly noted, Buff.  But just so we're clear, I'm not going to drop the Xander issue anytime soon.  I will torment you until you either admit that you have feelings for him, or you snap and kill me."

"That's fine with me," the Slayer agreed, "just as long as I get to choose."

**Meanwhile, back at Xander's….**

_"We need to talk ."_  Four words that strike fear into the heart of every man and woman alive.  It could mean many things, though it was universally recognized as the death knell of a relationship.  _Shit, Xandman, it could be worse.  She could've said "I'm pregnant".  Yeahhh.  Okay. Timing's not quite right on that one.   Note to self: Stop talking to self._

"Xander, did you hear me?  I said we need to talk."  __

Xander snapped to attention.  "Uh, yeah, I heard you Will, and I know what you're going to say.  I understand – it was a mistake.  I accept full responsibility for what happened."  

"Xander, sweetheart, you really don't have a clue, do you?"  _No wonder she was a lesbian.  Guys never seemed to get it right_.  "This isn't about us.  It's about you and Buffy."

"But…." Xander started, quickly  forgetting what he had planned to say.

"But nothing.  There is no us, and we both know it.  We're friends – best friends – who just happened to have sex.  And okay, the sex was great, but that is so not the point.  I'm gay, well, OK, maybe I'm bi, but the important thing is I'm not in love with you.  And you're not in love with me either.  You're in love with Buffy.  You always have been."

"Will, I _used _to be in love with Buffy.  Past tense.  Remember Anya?  Ex – well current – vengeance demon?  The one I was engaged to?

"The one you left at the alter?"

"That had nothing to do with Buffy.  Well, maybe just a little, but not the way you think."

The skeptical look on Willow's face compelled him to explain.  "That demon, the one who wanted revenge on Anya, he showed me things, things in my future.  And yes, I know they weren't necessarily real, but they could be, and that's what scares me."  Xander paused for a moment, running his hand through his hair in frustration.  "Every time I go on patrol with Buffy, every time a new big bad shows up in Sunnydale, there's a good chance that one of us is going to get hurt…or worse.  I can't bear the thought of doing that to Anya.  I don't think I could live with the consequences."

"You could have left.  Moved away from Sunnydale, started a family, lived a normal life…"

"You know I couldn't do that, Wills.  You guys are my family.  When I signed up for this gig, I enlisted for the duration.  I'm a lifer."

"Xan, if I recall correctly, we've had this exact same talk with Buffy.  It wasn't her choice to allow us to help her in the fight, it was our decision to make.  This is no different.  I know you didn't want her to get hurt, but it wasn't your choice to make.  If you really loved Anya, you would have let her decide for herself."

"There's more to it than that, Will.  You know the type of person my father is."  Willow nodded sadly, conveying her understanding.  Unlike the others, she knew exactly how Xander's home life had been.  He seldom talked about.  Xander wasn't the type to bother his friends with his problems, but it was a constant undercurrent in his relationships.  It shaped his life, molded him into the man he had become.  Xander knew what it was like to fell unwanted, to be hurt both physically and emotionally.  He swore to himself that he would never allow those he loved to feel such pain, not if he could do something to prevent it.  "That could be me, Wills.  I could be my father, and that scares me more than anything."

"Alexander Harris," Willow scolded, putting on her resolve face, "You are not your father.  Your father is weak.  He's a coward.  When his life didn't turn out the way he wanted, he turned to the bottle, and turned his back on his family.  You're better than that.  You've been knocked down time and again by this world, and each time you dust yourself off and leap back into the fray.  When life kicks you in the ass, you kick it right back.  You're the strongest one of us.  You're the heart of the Scoobies.   More than that, you're my hero.'

Willow could feel the tears welling up in her eyes as she met Xander's gaze.  He smiled sheepishly, reaching out to take her hands in his.  "Are we having a Hallmark moment here, or is it just me?"

Willow smiled, the tears threatening to fall once more.  "If I had a nickel for every time you've made me cry….."

"You'd still be my best friend, only you could afford to buy me better presents."  

The redhead looked at her friend, actually smiling for the first time in ages.  "Right now I'm thinking of  the perfect present."

"Uh Will, I thought the sex was a one-time deal?"

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Xander.  I had something else in mind."

"And that would be…?"

"I'm going to show a certain fair haired Slayer just what she's been missing."

Xander just shook his head.  "Wills, even if I were in love with Buffy, and I'm not saying I am, she doesn't feel the same way about me.  She's made that perfectly clear on more than one occasion."

"You really don't have a clue do you, Xand?"

"Did I miss something?"

The question elicited  a laugh.  "Did you not see the same thing I did this morning?  Did you see how Buffy reacted when she found out about us sleeping together?  That girl was seriously wigged.  Trust me, I know what it's like to have the Xander love-jones.  I'm the founding member of the _I fell in love with Xander Harris and all I got was this lousy tee shirt _club."

"Wait a second.  There were tee-shirts?"  

"Not many, it was a pretty select club."

"Oh."  The look on Xander's face said it all.

"Oh, it's not that," assured Willow.  "We just had really high standards."

"We?"

"We.  As in Cordelia, Amy and I."

"Amy," asked an incredulous Xander.

"Yes, Amy.  She had a huge crush on you in high school."

"I didn't know."

"Of course not.  You were oblivious."  Seeing the look on Xander's face, she quickly added, "Don't worry, it's just your way."

"Yeah, it's one of my more endearing traits."

"Something like that," she said with a smile.

"So Buffy's in love with me huh?"

"We covered that already."

"Yeah, but it I'm having a little trouble processing it.  It kinda goes against the natural order of things."

"Xand, we live in Sunnydale.  Everything goes against the natural order of things."

"Point taken, but it still doesn't make sense.  Why now?  Why after all these years does she suddenly have feelings for me?"

"I don't think she fell in love with you overnight.  Think of it as a work in progress," Willow explained patiently.  "She probably always felt something for you, she was just afraid to act on her feelings."

"If she felt that way about me, why push me away?"

"How long did it take you to act on your feelings for Buffy," said Willow, answering his question with one of her own.

"A lot less than six years.  And I never denied how I felt."

"That's true, Xander.  You've always been honest with yourself.  But look at it from Buffy's perspective.  Every guy she's ever cared about has left her.  Her father, Angel, Riley, even Giles.  In her mind, they've all abandoned her, even though they had their reasons.  She can't bear the thought of losing you too."

"And how do you know of all this how?"

"Women's intuition.  That and I may have sneaked a peak or two at her diary, but it's your word against mine, and I'll deny it under oath."

"Wills, I'm shocked.  I never would have guessed."

"What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"Guess I should have gotten used to that by now." 

"Look at the bright side.  At least you haven't become jaded. A little cynical perhaps, but never jaded."

"I do try to keep an open mind Willow."  

"And what about Buffy?  Are you going to keep an open mind about her?"

Xander pondered that point for a moment.  _That's the million dollar question isn't it.  What am I going to do about Buffy?  _It wasn't as if he'd never considered the possibility.  He'd always held on to the  infinitesimal sliver of  hope that one day Buffy would open her eyes and realize the truth.  Even through the dark days of Buffy/Angel he had never allowed the torch to completely die.  True, it had dimmed some.  There was the love/hate relationship with Cordelia, his ill-conceived dalliance with Willow, and the one-night fiasco that was Faith.  And then there was Anya.

_Anya_.  The woman he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with.  The woman who would bear his children.  To be honest, he still harbored feelings for her.  It was only natural.  After all, he was going to marry her.  Xander knew it wasn't love though.  Any possibility of that had been squelched by the resumption of Anya's demonic ways, as well as her subsequent indiscretion with Spike.  The sun had set on that relationship, and they both knew it.

Buffy was an even bigger dilemma.  Contrary to popular belief, Xander did have at least a modicum of pride.  Therein lay the problem.  He was half tempted to confront Buffy, to force her to admit her feelings so they could finally be together.  He'd always entertained that little fantasy in his furthest reaches of his mind.   But to do so would be to set aside his pride, to say that all grievances  were forgiven.   He didn't know if he was prepared to do that.  He wasn't Buffy's lap-dog.  He wouldn't come running when she called him, wouldn't roll over and play dead on command.  He wasn't that type of person.  And still, in spite of it all, he loved her.  He loved everything about her.  He loved the way her nose crinkled and her eyes lit up when she smiled.  He loved her incredible sense of humor, the way she could laugh at almost anything, despite the direness of the situation.  He loved her limitless generosity, and her indomitable spirit.  God help him, he loved every part of the creature that was Buffy Summers.  _But still…_

Willow sat silently and watched the turmoil reflected in Xander's face.  She could almost hear his thoughts, so well it was that she knew her friend.  She truly hoped for his sake that he made the right choice.  She knew what loneliness felt like.  She faced it every day since Tara had been taken from her.  Friend's could help to temporarily fill the void left behind, but they were only a stop-gap measure.  True love was the only permanent fix, and that was a rare thing indeed.

She looked deeply into Xander's somber eyes and could see the answer reflected there.  _Damn him._

 That's all for chapter 5.   I'm not very good at writing the touchy-feely stuff, so please bear with me.  Also, I'm still not sure where this story is going, though I am 90% sure it will be B/X in the end.  Please let me know what you all think of this chapter (you know who you are), if only to tell me it sucked.   I promise there will be more action in chapter six, though I am not sure when it will be finished. I'm working 12 hour days again and I have a few old friends coming into town for the weekend, so probably won't see chapter six until sometime next week.  As always, please review (it helps build my self esteem!)

Until next time,

Rabid Squirrel


	6. How Much is That Doggy In the Window?

_Author_: Rabid Squirrel  
_Title_: "Murphy's Law"  
_Disclaimer_: If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction? Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.  
_Summary_: Follow-up to the travesty that was season 6. Answers questions such as: Why Spike is able to hit Buffy; why did Xander really leave Anya at the alter; where does Whistler get his wardrobe; and just what really is in a hot dog. (Just kidding about the hot dog - nobody knows what they hell they put in those)  
_Spoilers:_ Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects. Also, this may be a crossover at some point, though I make no guarantees.  
_Rating:_ R, for violence, strong language, sexual content, the untimely demise of cute little puppies and bunny rabbits, and quite possibly the clubbing of baby seals. Sorry PETA, some animals were harmed in the writing of this story. Now, where did that dolphin get to..?  
_Dedication:_ To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.  
_Feedback_: Thanks again to all who have read and reviewed, some of you at length (this means you Lori - thanks for the advice). I appreciate the continued feedback. Also, Erin - you're right about this story. This is all about you! Alas, it will still probably be B/X in the end. But despair not, for I promise Buffy will remain forever angst-ridden, at least in the Rabid Squirrel Universe. I prefer the Slayer with a side order of issues.   
  


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**  
****Chapter 6  
St. Andrews Church  
Sunnydale, CA**  
  
It is often said that the majority of people truly turn to God only when confronted with their own impending demise. It made perfect sense, given humanity's consciousness of their own mortality and the morbid human fascination with death. Perhaps that's the reason that there were so few empty pews in father Michael's church every Sunday morning, given that the populace of Sunnydale was constantly confronted with death, usually in its fanged, two-legged incarnation. Truth be known, though, the priest didn't really care. The important thing was that the people needed to be saved; why they came to seek salvation was not of any particular concern to him. Contrary to popular belief, many people in Sunnydale did believe in the bogeyman. Father Michael counted himself among their ranks. He had faithfully administered to his troubled flock for nearly twenty years, first as a deacon, and for the last decade as a fully ordained priest. He had never married, had in fact never known the touch of a woman, except for a fleeting and awkward experience at his senior prom. He had no time for such things, as there were many in need in this small town, particularly after the sun went down. He knew about vampires, demons and the like. He had personally been confronted by them, saved only by his unwavering faith and a strategically placed cross. The vial of holy water had probably helped as well. Like the proprietor of that ghastly tavern downtown, the good Father was considered by many to be a man in the know, though, unlike Willy, he universally abhorred gossip-mongering. His purview was limited to preaching the divine truth and interpreting God's word, though he could indeed tell some interesting stories if he were so inclined. For instance, he knew a great deal about one Elizabeth Anne Summers. He knew how the beautiful young woman occupied her nights, at least when she was roaming the cemeteries and streets of Sunnydale. How she spent the remaining hours was between her and God. She did not attend services, at least not at his church. For all he knew, she had no religious affiliation whatsoever. That didn't prevent her from doing the Lord's work, however. Father Michael had encountered the young women on several occasions, mostly during his infrequent nighttime sojourns through Restfield Cemetery. On those evenings when he had both the energy and the mental fortitude to do so, he took time to enjoy the peace and tranquility of the cemetery. He knew that the Summers girl had often shadowed him during these nocturnal excursions. It wasn't so much that he had seen or heard her, but he could swear that he sensed her presence, especially during the past year. Perhaps she felt personally responsible for his safety, or maybe she just liked stalking the clergy. Whatever the reason, Father Michael was thankful for her presence. He wasn't exactly sure what she was, but he was certain she wasn't human, at least not entirely. For, unlike the rest of official Sunnydale, Father Michael knew that the Summers girl had died. She had, after all, been buried not far from the church, and Father Michael had been asked by that English gentleman to preside over the interment. He had seen Buffy Summers buried, had prayed for her soul, and had seen her rise again. He remembered that night with remarkable clarity, could still picture in his mind the hellish brood of demons rampaging through the streets and the carnage that ensued. But what he remembered most was the sight of a small, pale hand thrusting upwards through the ground, the nails bloodied in the struggle to escape the confines of the coffin. He had initially taken her for a vampire, until he remembered that she had been in the ground for months. He had watched unseen as she struggled to come to terms with her surroundings, then haltingly made her way out of the cemetery, unsure of where, and possibly who, she was. Father Michael had frequently heard the term "Slayer" used in conjunction with the girl's name, more often than not preceded by some variation of the word "damn" or "fucking". He hadn't been able to trace the origin of the title, but it wasn't hard to put two and two together. She killed the things that needed killing. The question still remained, however: Just what was she now? The girl had climbed out of the grave after four months, her flesh untouched by decomposition. He could logically rule out any malevolent force as the source of her resurrection. If that girl is a monster, then the Pope is Jewish. No, there was a more logical explanation, one more commensurate with Catholic dogma: The girl had been sent back.  
  
As divine acts go, it was not without precedent, though the last occurrence - according reputable sources - had been over 2000 years before. But this girl hadn't been brought back as an example to instill faith in the masses. She was back because she was needed. That was a good enough explanation for him. Since Elizabeth's return (he detested the name Buffy), the good Father had made it a point to keep tabs on the girl, regularly checking up on her through various sources. Unbeknownst to her or her friends, he had intervened on her behalf with Social Services regarding the custody of her sister. He had also convinced the bank to delay foreclosing on the Summers' home, personally vouching for her character. The Archbishop himself had recently assured him such action would no longer be necessary. The Church had matters well in hand. Secure in that knowledge, Father Michael took one last look at the Sacristy, convinced that everything was as it should be. 

Switching off the lights, he strolled into the vestibule, then through the double doors into the church proper. The church was relatively new, constructed during the California building boom of the 1980's. Its design was modeled after a similar church in Midwestern Ohio, one that radically deviated from traditional Roman Catholic architecture. Instead of the tried-and-true red brick exterior, the outer walls of the edifice were covered in mottled- gray stone near the foundation, with a dark auburn brick encompassing the multitude of stained-glass windows further up the walls. The church was not constructed around a central bell tower, as in traditional designs. Instead the bell tower was built as a separate structure, the carillon fully automated and run by computer. Perhaps the most striking difference was found in the ceiling and roof of the structure. Instead of the typical slanted roof, the church sported a curving parabolic crown, framed on the interior by large arching oaken timbers. The ceiling reached its apex directly over the open alter, behind which stood a giant crucifix, fully thirty feet in height, and twenty across. Father Michael had often joked to his parishioners that theirs was the archetypal California church. Just as their home state did not often fit in with the other 49, neither did this church mesh well with the usual form expected of Catholic churches. Californians just had to be different, the priest mused.  
  
Chuckling to himself at that observation, the young priest gook one last glance around the church, to assure himself that everything was in order for the night. The last of the worshippers had left hours before, shortly before sunset. He was alone in the church, save for the huge white wolf perched atop the baptismal font, eagerly lapping up the holy water inside. Father Michael did a double take, his jaw nearly dropping to the floor in astonishment. _What in the name of God_.?  
  
"I apologize for the intrusion, Father," a quiet voice spoke from behind the priest. "It seems my friend has worked up quite a thirst tonight." Father Michael spun in the direction of the voice, his heart skipping a beat as he did so. A man clad wholly in black crouched atop the back of a chair in front of the first row of pews, balancing entirely on the tips of his toes, seemingly defying the laws of physics. At the sound of the man's voice, the animal on the altar dismounted the font, trotting down the altar steps and taking his place beside his master. He then sat perfectly still, eyeing the priest intently with iridescent blue eyes.  
  
Unconsciously fingering his silver crucifix, Father Michael took a step towards the intruders, silently uttering a prayer for his safety. "M-My son, I am sorry, but we do not allow animals in the church," he stammered.  
  
The wolf whimpered mournfully, crouching down on his haunches, covering his eyes with his gigantic paws as if in shame. The man in black turned toward his "pet", whispering something inaudible to the creature. Turning again toward Father Michael, he addressed the priest. "It seems you've hurt Loki's feelings, Father. I'm afraid he's really rather sensitive."  
  
The priest stared at the man dumbfounded, unsure of what to say. As it turned out, he didn't have to say anything. The man in black hopped down from his perch without a word. He silently approached the priest, adjusting his cloak as he did so. "Don't worry about it, my friend, he'll get over it," the man said, a wry grin on his face. "He always does."  
  
For a reason he could not quite fathom, Father Michael suddenly felt at ease with this strange man. His hand fell away from his cross as a feeling of serenity washed over him. He did not think to ask how the man knew his name.  
  
The visitor stopped directly in front of the priest, his hands folded in front of him. He looked at Father Michael wistfully. "I must apologize father, for what I'm about to do." Before the priest could react, the man's hand shot out, his palm coming to rest on the priest's forehead. Father Michael's eyes went wide, then closed quickly as the stranger spoke a single word.  
  
"Sleep."  
  
The man caught the priest's body as it fell, gently lowering him to the floor. He checked the priest's pulse, just to be sure. Satisfied, he stood, glancing over to the magnificent creature waiting patiently a few meters away. "Go," he commanded the beast. Loki jumped to his feet, issuing a single bark in response. He pivoted gracefully, gliding down the aisle towards the exit, his great stride propelling him at an unnatural speed. Just as it seemed he would collide with the heavy wooden doors, they swung open, seemingly of their own volition, and the great white beast disappeared into the night.  
  
Taking one last glance at the priest on the floor, the man walked back towards the doors the priest had only recently passed through. Pulling a metal case from within his cloak, he opened the doors, and walked through. The man strode silently down the hallway, passing the Sacristy, and continuing on to a door marked "private". Ripping the locked door off its hinges, he proceeded down a flight of stairs, and into the bowels of the church.  
  


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**The Summers Residence The same time**  
  
For the first time in a long time, Buffy Summers was not afraid to read the mail. There were still bills, quite a few in fact, along with the usual assortment of advertisements and other junk mail. But at least now she had the financial resources to pay them. She quickly perused the bills, sorting them in order from longest overdue to most recent. The majority had the words second, third, or final notice printed in bold red type on the front of the envelope. One particular envelop caught her eye, one with the words First National Bank of Sunnydale under the return address. She ripped the envelop open, quickly scanning the enclosed letter. Holy shit, she thought to herself. I guess lightning really does strike twice.  
  
"Hey Buffy, whatcha got there?" Dawn asked, walking into the kitchen and taking a seat on the stool next to her sister.  
  
"Would you believe the deed to the house?"  
  
"I live on the Hellmouth. I'll believe just about anything. Except aliens, I don't believe in little green men." Buffy's questioning look caused her to reassess that position. "Oh...yeah..right. Never mind."  
  
Buffy laughed at her sister's selective memory. It must be inherited. "Don't sweat it Dawn. You were partially right. The only alien I've ever seen wasn't exactly a little man, though he was green. And slimy. And ugly."  
  
"Thanks for the happy memory, Buff. You think maybe we could spare some of our newfound wealth to pay for my therapy?"  
  
The Slayer shook her head. "Therapy wouldn't help. You're not crazy, just weird. Besides," she added, "After a few sessions with you, the shrink would need to be committed."  
  
"You would know. After all, you have spent time in a mental ward." Sometimes Buffy just made it too easy.  
  
"Touché," Buffy responded, waving the white flag.  
  
"Glad you see it my way, sis. Oh, and before I forget, I was thinking maybe we could have Willow do her little illegal hacking routine and break into the bank's computer system There has to be some record of where the money came from, right?"  
  
"I don't know Dawn. I think this may be a little soon for Willow to be jumping on the criminal bandwagon again. Her last little misadventure didn't turn out too well."  
  
"I think we can make a distinction between premeditated murder and computer hacking, Buffy. I doubt she'll resort back to her homicidal ways." Seeing the hesitant look on her sister's face she added, "Don't worry, I'll talk to her about it. I wouldn't want to make things between you two any more awkward than they already are."  
  
Buffy said nothing, but acknowledged Dawn's offer with a nod.  
  
The sound of the doorbell ringing interrupted their conversation. "I'll get it," Dawn offered. "It's probably Stacy." She hopped off the barstool and sped off to the living room. Moments later, Dawn's theory was confirmed as Buffy heard the mindless chatter of two sixteen year old girls. Buffy called out to her sister, "Dawn, are you going out?"  
  
"Yeah, we're going to the Bronze. We thought maybe we'd have a few drinks, do some drugs, and if we have time, prostitute ourselves. Why, is that a problem?"  
  
Buffy ignored the latter part of Dawn's facetious remark. "You do realize it's dark out."  
  
"Don't worry, my body is a lethal weapon. Besides the vamp, I mean, uh, gang activity is way down lately. We'll be careful." Stacy shot Dawn a quizzical look. Vamp? What in the hell is that girl talking about?  
  
"Alright Dawn, just be home early."  
  
"Sure thing. Later Buff," the younger Summer sister said, hustling her friend out the door. She wasn't afraid of the dark. Buffy had taught her some moves, and she was packing heat. No problem whatsoever.  
  
Stacy was still staring at her friend, a confused look on her face. "Vamp? What the hell were you talking about?"  
  
"You know, vamp, tramp, it's all the same. Just a slip of the tongue," Dawn assured her, hoping she had covered the slip-up adequately. She hadn't yet told any of her friends about the Scooby Gang's nocturnal activities, and she was in no hurry to do so. Besides, she was alert. She wouldn't let anything happen to them. Nothing gets past me, she told herself as she and Stacy made their way down the street.  
  
She was dead wrong. Perhaps if she had been more observant, she would have noticed the luminous blue eyes watching her attentively from across the street. Or maybe not. As the two girls continued on their way to the Bronze, the unknown stalker fell in behind them, pacing them silently, waiting patiently to make his move. He was not alone. He could sense his brother nearby, leap-frogging from roof to roof, trailing the pair of young girls by about 50 yards. Neither had fed in quite some time, and tonight was looking to be a veritable banquet. Soon, the blood would flow.  
  
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That's all for now. I thought I'd leave you with a little cliff-hanger of sorts. Will Dawn and Stacy become demon kibble? Even the Rabid Squirrel doesn't know for sure (well, OK, I do, but I'm not telling). Look for chapter 7 soon. The pace is going to pick up soon (and yes, I know I promise that with every chapter, but this time I mean it..maybe). As always, keep the feedback coming, and I'll keep feeding you more chapters.  
  
Till next time,  
  
Rabid Squirrel


	7. Sunnydale 101: Precautionary Tales From...

_Author:_  Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_:   "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaimer:_  If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction?  Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_  Follow-up to the travesty that was season 6.  Answers questions such as:  Why Spike is able to hit Buffy; why did Xander really leave Anya at the alter; where does Whistler get his wardrobe; and just what really is in a hot dog.  (Just kidding about the hot dog – nobody knows what they hell they put in those)

_Spoilers:_  Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.  Also, this may be a crossover at some point, though I make no guarantees.

_Rating:   _R, for violence, strong language, sexual content, the untimely demise of cute little puppies and bunny rabbits, and quite possibly the clubbing of baby seals.  Sorry PETA, some animals were harmed in the writing of this story.  _Now, where did that dolphin get to….?_

_Dedication_:  To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.

_Feedback:_   Thanks again to all who have read and reviewed  I appreciate the continued feedback.  

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Chapter 7 An Empty Warehouse Downtown Sunnydale 

Micah Vagadis was not a patient man.  To be honest, he wasn't man at all –  hadn't been one in over 100 years now, and even in his human days had not been known for his patience.  The fact that his minions were slow in waking tonight was not helping matters.  The irritated vampire paced the floor, growling loudly, the threatening guttural sound acting as an alarm for the slumbering vampires scattered about the room.  As a whole they woke, wary of the danger of keeping their master waiting for too long.  Micah was not a demon to be trifled with, as evidenced by the pile of dust on the floor.  Jerome had been a little too slow in learning that lesson the previous night.

The minions began to stir, stretching their dead limbs to shake off the sleep.  It was getting harder to wake up every night, as the lack of food began to take its toll.  For the past few weeks, the pickings had been particularly slim in Sunnydale.  _Maybe the humans were getting smarter, _pondered Micah.  He dismissed that thought out-of-hand.  He'd been eating their kind for over a century, and, if anything, the human capacity for survival had only regressed during that time.  Micah could still remember when knowledge of his kind among the humans was commonplace.  It never ceased to amaze him what people could forget over the course of a few generations.  No, it wasn't the humans that had shifted the balance of the food chain, it was something else entirely.  He could sense it, could smell it in the air.  For a while he had attributed the change to the Slayer, or whatever the hell she was these days.  She had been on a tear for the past few months, dispatching his kind with an ease borne not of experience, but of hatred.  There had been a time when Master vampires such as himself sought out the Slayer, seeking her head as a trophy.  With the passing of the Master and the shaming of Vlad Dracul, that time had passed.  The Slayer, at least this one, was something to be avoided at all costs, even is she wasn't responsible for their present problems.

Micah put that thought behind him.  _Out of sight, out of mind_.  That was his motto.  He turned to the pathetic excuse of a mob he called his own, and beckoned them to follow him.  It was time for dinner.

The demons followed his lead, flanking their master as they poured out into the streets.  Micah, as always, would have first choice of the prey.  The others could only hope that there was enough to go around.  It wasn't always that way.  Though it was rare, vampires had been known to die of starvation.  The vampire social hierarchy was brutally Darwinian, and every bit as unforgiving as that of their human counterparts.  The vampires had faith in their master, though, and did not fear such a fate.  Micah would see to their continued survival.

The brood was completely in predator mode now, their hunting instincts taking over.  As one, their senses came alive, their eyes, ears, and noses penetrating the darkness, searching for their prey.  They could hear every human breath, feel the pulse of every heartbeat, see the slightest movement, and smell every drop of blood within a three block radius.  They were nature's perfect predator, and they would prove so again tonight.  Of that they had no doubt.

They continued on in silence, weaving their way among the myriad of alleys and back streets, some of their number taking to the rooftops to increase their field of vision.  The brood bypassed the Bronze.  It was still early, and they hoped to intercept the younger humans as they made their way on foot to the popular club.  The young blood was sweeter, purer, uncorrupted.  It was as ripe fruit plucked from the vine.  The grief caused by the death of a child only sweetened the deal.

Tonight Micah's number two was on point.  As a human, Jebediah had been a superb hunting guide, leading wealthy wannabe Davy Crockett's and Jim Bowies high into the Rocky Mountains on wild game expeditions.  It was said that he could track a human from a mile away, even before he had been turned.   As it was, that theory had never been tested.  It made no matter, for his skill was evident to all who knew him.   Seeing movement on the horizon, Jeb tensed, holding up a single hand to signal the others to stop.  From his vantage point on the roof of yet another empty warehouse, he spotted them from over a thousand feet away, two teenage girls strolling down the road, chatting away, seemingly oblivious to what lie in wait just ahead.   He was getting a strange reading off one of them, the lanky, attractive girl he had often seen around the Bronze.  He dismissed it as insignificant.  _Maybe the girl was a seer, _he mused.  That was not unknown among the human population.   He wondered idly if she could see her own death coming.  __

Jeb pushed the thought from his mind, returning to the task at hand.  He stood perfectly still, his eyes tracking the progress of the girls as they came ever closer to the ambush he had set.  _Suck 'em in and blow 'em away, _he thought, remembering his days with 3rd  SOG in the highlands of Cambodia.  _ On second thought, that's not quite right.  How about, suck 'em in and suck 'em dry.  _He liked that one better.  It had – what was the word – panache?

They were getting closer now.  The girls had drawn to within a hundred feet of his position.  The excitement began to build for Jeb; he could almost taste the kill now.  He could hear their little hearts pumping away, shunting their delectable blood to various points within their fragile little bodies.  He could hear their meaningless babble, could almost smell their minty-fresh breath.  Jeb had to mentally will himself to hold still, lest he reveal his presence too soon, thereby incurring  his master's wrath.  

He prepared to drop down behind the girls as they passed directly below.  He crouched down on the roof, gaining the leverage he needed to catapult himself over the edge of the parapet.  They were within range now. Their fate had been chosen, and he was it.  His muscles tensed, a smile spreading slowly across his face.  _Lambs to the slaughter_, he thought to himself.

He heard it coming before he ever saw it.  The scrape of a claw on the roof, the swoosh of displaced air as it passed by.  His head instinctively swung in the direction of the sound, his mind struggling to comprehend what he say.  He had time for one brief thought, his mind screaming that it couldn't possibly be that large, that fast, that real.  As its jaws closed around his neck, Jeb did something he had never done before, either as a man or demon.  He screamed liked a little girl.

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Dawn was beginning to have second thoughts about going out tonight.  She really did want to go to the Bronze – that wasn't an act.   She had been neglecting her friends lately, she knew,  opting instead to spend some quality time bonding with her sister.  But something didn't feel quite right.  Something was off, though she couldn't quite put her finger on exactly what it was.   It wasn't the first time she had experienced this feeling.  In fact, it had been a common occurrence since Buffy's death a year ago.  She couldn't quite explain it, couldn't quantify what it was that she was feeling, but it wasn't good.  That much she knew.

Stacy was still talking a mile-a-minute, as she was known to do.  In that respect, she reminded Dawn a lot of Willow, except that she wasn't gay, or a Wicca, and to the best of Dawn's knowledge, had never tried to kill her.  At times, Dawn had entertained thoughts of integrating her own friends into the Scooby Gang.  But that would mean clueing her friends in to her way of life, thereby exposing them to the dangers she faced.  That was a responsibility she wasn't quite ready to accept.

As they came nearer to the Bronze, the sensation she was experiencing increased in intensity, causing the hair on her neck to stand on end.   Her Spidey sense was definitely tingling tonight.  Dawn stopped in mid-stride, pausing to scan the street to the left and to the right.  She saw nothing that presented an immediate danger, but still her inner sense told her to be wary.  _There's something out there, _the voice in her head warned.  By now, Stacy had noticed her friend's hesitation.  "Hey, earth to Dawn.  You still with me?"  She was not expecting the reaction she got.

"Stacy, be quiet," Dawn hissed, motioning her friend to stop.  Again she scanned her surroundings, not quite able to make out the figures closing in just beyond her field of vision.  

"Dawn, what the hell's wrong with you," Stacy asked, the concern evident in her voice.  "C'mon, you're freaking me out."  She got no response.  Dawn continued looking around, unconsciously fingering the stake concealed in her purse.   She listened intently, hoping in vain to hear something, anything that would give her some idea of what was going on.  What she heard next did just that.

In her few short years in Sunnydale, Dawn had heard a great deal of screaming, much of it originating from her own lungs.  But she had never heard anything quite like the inhuman wail that violated the still night air.  It was a scream of unadulterated terror, the swan song of a dark creature ensnared in the clutches of death.  Simultaneously, twelve head jerked upwards, two human, ten not, all of them searching out the source of the noise.  The humans saw nothing, unaccustomed as they were to seeing in the dark.  Those more inclined to nighttime viewing saw little more; a flash of white, followed by a fine layer of dust filtering down to the street below.  

The vampire master hesitated, recognizing the occurrence for what it was:  One of his group had fallen, perhaps claimed by the Slayer, perhaps the victim of something else.  It didn't matter at any rate.  The prey was theirs for the taking.  The Slayer couldn't take them, not all at once.  On his cue, the group moved out, leaving the cover of darkness, illuminated by the streetlights for the first time.  Their supernatural speed quickly closed the gap between them and their dinner.

Dawn saw them coming.  Grabbing her stunned friend by the hand, she shouted in her ear.  "We've gotta motivate.  Now!"  The girls turned, the adrenaline surging through their veins as they prepared to flee in the direction they had come.  What they saw stopped them dead in their tracks.  

Dawn had seen wolves before, on a class trip to the Sunnydale Zoo.  She had spent a great deal of time lingering at the lupine exhibit, staring at the misunderstood creatures, mesmerized by their soulful gaze.  She remembered that they were relatively large animals, especially the Siberian wolves.  She was fairly certain they hadn't been this large.  The beast standing before them would have been almost comical in appearance had it not been so utterly terrifying..  It stood over four feet high at the shoulder, measuring fully ten feet from the nose to the tip of its tail.  The claws protruding from its oversized paws appeared to be something straight out of the Jurassic.  What Dawn noticed most prominently, however, other than the glowing azure eyes, was the size and number of its teeth.  Instead of a single set of teeth, its gaping mouth bristled with four complete rows of razor-sharp canines, culminating in a pair of impossibly large fangs, complete with the requisite drool dripping ominously from its gums.   

They were trapped, Dawn realized belatedly.  She quickly reviewed their options:  _We can either be eaten, or we can be eaten.  _"Shit," she uttered quietly, desperately hoping that option c would present itself in time to save them.  Stacy's reaction was no better.  She began hyperventilating, her response even more fatalistic than Dawn's.  "Omigod, Omigod, Omigod….we're gonna die," she cried, doing little to reassure Dawn of their continued survival.

The pack of vampires behind Dawn and Stacy had come to a halt as well.  They had seen many strange things on the streets of Sunnydale, though few scarier than themselves, something they prided themselves on.  This creature was the rare exception.  To a man, their observations mirrored those of the girls.  _This was not good_.  A few of their number – mostly younger, less experienced minions – weighed the odds, surmising (incorrectly) that this was the beast that had taken Jeb.  Mimicking the girls abortive retreat a few moments earlier, they too attempted to turn tail and flee.  To their collective dismay, they found that their escape had been blocked as well.  The beast in their path was a mirror image of the first, right down to the deep-throated growl emanating from its mouth.   Like their intended prey, the vampires froze in fear.

The beast in front of Dawn crouched low to the ground, preparing to pounce upon its prey.   Dawn, anticipating what was coming, dropped her stake, raising her hands instinctively in a defensive posture.  There was no way she could fight this thing.  She only hoped it would be over with quickly.  She closed her eyes, preparing herself for the inevitable.  _God, _she prayed, _please don't let Buffy find me.  _She couldn't bear the thought of Buffy happening upon her body, finding her mutilated remains.  She knew that it would break her sister.  The beast leapt into the air, sailing straight at her…..

……and flying directly overhead.  It landed behind them, plunging directly into the heart of the vampire pack, tearing into the demons with claw and tooth.  The screams of the maimed and dying vampires could scarcely be heard over the roar of the avenging creature.  The demons tried to fight back, raining desperate blows upon the creature's thick hide, lashing out with their own formidable fangs.  The beast did not so much as acknowledge their futile resistance, tearing through them like a scythe through wheat.  The second creature joined in the fray, singling out the leader of the brood.  It sunk its curved claws deep into Micah's neck, tearing out his throat, depriving the vampire of even the ability to scream out in pain.  The creature had no mercy for the demon, felt no compassion for its kind.  Neither did he seek to torture it.  He had only one purpose:  To kill them all.  He was particularly good at that.

The vampires fell one-by-one, their numbers quickly dropping as the attackers decimated their ranks.  One enterprising bloodsucker decided to make a run for it, only to trip over a maimed comrade.  One of the beasts quickly descended on him, tearing into his exposed back, ripping out the demon's spine.  The vampire roared in pain, begging for death.

By now Dawn could stand it no longer.  She just wanted it to be over.  She took a breath, and opened her eyes, taking in the carnage before her.  Most of the vampires were gone, reduced to a pile of dust.  The great white beasts milled about now, feeding on the remaining few vampires.  Dawn tore her eyes away from the grisly spectacle, checking to see if Stacy was okay.  Her trembling friend lay on the ground, curled into a ball, slowly rocking herself back and forth.  Keeping one eye on the scene in front of her, Dawn crept over to check on her friend.  She knelt down, gently placing a hand on Stacy's shoulder.  Dawn spoke softly to her friend, wrapping her other arm around the girl to comfort her.  "Stacy, can you hear me?  We have to go now."  The sobbing girl showed no sign of having heard her friend.   Dawn ventured a cautious look back towards where the vampires had been.  She saw only mounds of dust, wondering where the "wolves" had gotten to.  The warm breath on the back of her neck answered her question.  Dawn slowly turned her head, coming face to face with the killing machine.  She tried to make a sound, any sound, but found that she was physically incapable of doing so.  _Great, they decided to save us for last.  Probably didn't wanna share with the vamps.  _Dawn steeled herself, preparing herself to die for the second time in only a few minutes.  The animal in front of her opened its mouth.  _Here we go, _she thought.  

The sensation of the beast's tongue licking her face was not what she was expecting.  Ignoring for the moment the copious amount of drool drenching her face, she took a closer look at the creature.  It sat on the sidewalk, its tail happily thumping against the concrete.  Except for its immense stature, it looked every bit the prototypical family dog.  For some reason, Dawn couldn't help but think of Marmaduke.  _Yeah, that's it.  He's Marmaduke.  Marmaduke on steroids.  _She looked back at Stacy.  The second animal had joined their little group.  He lay next to Stacy, gently nuzzling the girl, looking for all the world like a big, cuddly stuffed animal.  Dawn slowly stood, the giant beast standing next to her like some supernatural guard dog.  She reached down, helping Stacy to her feet.  The girl looked at Dawn in fear and confusion, but said nothing.  She had gone catatonic.  

Dawn looked around uncertainly.  She wasn't quite sure what to do next.  Luckily, her newly adopted pet made the decision for her.  The animal jerked its head in the direction the girls had come from.  He began gently nudging her, pushing her back towards home.  Dawn looked to Stacy, shrugging her shoulders.  "I guess we go home."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The Summer's Residence**

**Moments Later**

Buffy Summers often worried about her sister.  For the past two years, she had been as concerned for Dawn's mental well-being as she was for her physical safety.  She knew that Dawn had since turned a corner, had come to terms with what she was and how she had come to be.  Lately, though, Buffy had become increasingly concerned about her sister's safety.  It was as if each year of her life was another season in some cheesy sci-fi series.  The bad guys just kept getting badder every year.  _A TV show based on my life?  Who the hell would want to watch that? _ Buffy just wished her sister would get home soon.  A quick glance at the clock proclaimed otherwise.  Dawn had only been gone for half an hour.  _God, I've become my mother._  That brought a smile to her face.  It wasn't such a bad feeling after all.  Buffy glanced back to the TV, watching as the familiar news commentator opined on yet another subject of great importance.  She wondered vaguely where Bill O'Reilly stood on the vampire issue.  _He should  broadcast an episode from the Hellmouth, _she mused.  After all,  Sunnydale was certainly qualified for his "Most Ridiculous Items" segment_. _  It probably wouldn't happen, she admitted to herself.  Sunnydale was the "spin" capital of the world, thanks in no small part to the city council and the local authorities.  _The more things change…, _Buffy lamented.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps outside.   Buffy was tempted to go to the door, but opted not to.  She didn't want Dawn to think she was waiting up for her.  Presently the front door opened, and Dawn walked in, followed seconds later by a very agitated Stacy.

"I can't believe you knew and didn't tell me!  How in the hell could you keep this from me?  The tone of Stacy's voice was clear.  She was not a happy camper.  Buffy shot a questioning look at Dawn.  Her sister just smiled meekly in response.  

Stacy was now in full rant mode, and quickly picking up steam.  "Don't you dare smile!  There is nothing to smile about. We were almost killed tonight!"

Dawn took the optimistic viewpoint.  "Stacy, calm down.  We didn't die.  Everything's going to be alright."  It was easy for Dawn to say.  Life-threatening situations had become old hat for her.  Stacy, however, was still new to the game, and was not so easily appeased.

"Everything is not all right," she screamed.  "Have you looked outside?  Do you see the same thing I do?  Please, tell me we did not have our asses saved from a bunch of walking corpses by the Cujo twins out there!"

By now Buffy was more than a little intrigued, not to mention significantly concerned.  She walked over to the window, pulled open the curtain, and peered out into the darkness.   Even though she considered herself to be sufficiently jaded from her years on the Hellmouth, Buffy was still stunned by what she saw on the front lawn.  Two massive forms lay sprawled out on the grass, resembling giant lawn ornaments.  She turned to her sister, her expression asking the question that her mouth couldn't.  Dawn mouthed her response, hesitant to interrupt Stacy's tirade and incur her wrath.  _I'll explain later._

Meanwhile, Stacy was still on a roll.  "I wanna know how in the hell you know about vampires.  I mean, this isn't exactly an everyday occurrence, now is it?"

Dawn braved a response.  "Am I supposed to answer that or….."  Given the circumstances, it probably wasn't the best thing to say.

Stacy nearly exploded.  "Are you hearing a word I'm saying?  I want you to answer the fucking question!"

Dawn looked to Buffy.  "Do you want to handle this, or should I," she asked, her eyes pleading with her sister.

Buffy smiled in spite of herself.  "She's your friend."

Dawn mumbled something beneath her breath, then turned back to her friend.  "Okay.  The short answer is yes.  It is an everyday occurrence."  Seeing the disbelieving look on Stacy's face, she continued.  "If you promise not to interrupt, I'll explain."  Stacy thought about it, then nodded in agreement.

Dawn took a deep breath, then launched into her story.  "You see, it goes something like this….it's all Buffy's fault."

"Dawn!" Her sister protested, not liking the abridged story of their lives.

"You wanted me to explain," Dawn argued reasonably.  "Besides, it's basically true.  You are a demon magnet."

"Excuse me," Stacy interrupted, "I thought someone was going to explain this to me."  Dawn held up her hands in mock surrender.  

"Okay, I'm sorry.  Let me start over." Dawn scratched her head, striking a pensive pose as she pondered how best to tell the story of their lives.  "You know how we always watch horror movies and talk about what we would do if we were in that situation?"  Stacy nodded.  Critiquing cheesy horror flicks was one of their favorite pastimes.   "Well, we sort of are in that situation.  To put it simply, the bogeyman is real.  So are vampires, zombies, werewolves, aliens, and possibly even leprechauns."

Buffy had to call her on the last one.  "No leprechauns," she intoned, shaking her head for emphasis.

"All right, strike the leprechauns, but the rest are real."

Stacy was still confused.  "But how does this involve you?"

"I'm getting to that.  You see, it's kind of like in the movies.  For every bad guy you have to have a superhero.  Ergo, with Lex Luthor, you get Superman.  It's a package deal.  That's where Buffy comes in."

"Your sister's Superman," asked a skeptical Stacy.  "She doesn't quite have the build.  And I don't see a cape."

"She's more like Supergirl, only she can't fly, and I don't think kryptonite affects her either."  Buffy rolled her eyes at the exchange.  Dawn was never good at getting to the point.

"Buffy's a Slayer.  The one girl in all the world, blah, blah, blah.  Basically she hangs around a lot in cemeteries and kills vampires.  Well, most of them anyway."

"Okay," Stacy said.  "Let me see if I have this straight.  Vampires are real, leprechauns aren't.  And your sister is some mythical superhero type who kills the bad things?"

"That's it in a nutshell," Dawn confirmed.

"And what about you?  What was the deal with the whole ESP episode you had tonight?  You knew something was going to happen, didn't you?"  Dawn smiled sheepishly at her sister before responding to Stacy's question.  

"Don't worry about me.  I'm not real anyway."

"You're not real?"

"Nope."

"So I'm hallucinating right now?"

"Nope."

"You do realize that you're not making anything that resembles sense."  Dawn could be very frustrating at times.

"It's kind of a long story," Dawn explained.  "So I'll give you the Dummies version:  I'm actually a mystical ball of energy that can tear down the walls between dimensions.  A group of well-intentioned but misguided monks made me – the key – into Buffy's sister so that she would protect me from a PMSing hellgod."

The look on Stacy's face said it all.  "Remind me never to ask you another question."

"Uh, guys," Buffy interjected.  "I hate to interrupt, but maybe you can explain why Sigfried and Roy's pets are sitting on our front lawn?"

"Oh, yeah.  I forget about them.  You think we should give them a bowl of water?"

"A bowl of water?" Buffy repeated.

"Yeah.  To wash down the blood," Dawn explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"The blood?"

"From the vampires they ate."

"They ate vampires?"

"Better them than us," said Dawn.  Stacy eagerly nodded her agreement.

"They didn't try to eat you, though?"  Buffy wanted to be sure.

"Nope, but they did slobber all over us.  I don't think that's a slayable offense though."

"And you don't know what they are or where they came from?"

"Sorry Buff, We pumped them for information, but they're not very talkative.  They're more the strong, silent type.  But they do like to be scratched behind the ears, if that helps any."

"We'll discuss entering them in the dog show later." Buffy replied facetiously.  "Do you have any idea what we're supposed to do with them?"

"We could adopt them – keep them as pets.  You could take them on long walks every night in the cemetery.  You know, throw a little Frisbee, kill a few demons.  It'd be a good bonding experience.  Plus, you did always say that you wanted a dog."

Buffy thought that one over.  "You know, Dawn.  I think that you're absolutely right.  We should keep them, under two conditions."

"And they are…."

"The first is, you have to clean up after them.  You're gonna need a big pooper-scooper.  I recommend a backhoe."

Dawn was not amused.  She was serious about keeping the wolves, even if Stacy was still a little wigged about them.  "And what's the second condition."

Buffy smiled.  "You get to explain to Romulus and Remus the whole concept of neutering."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Sunnydale Airport**

**0500 hrs**

The sleek Learjet rolled to a stop on the tarmac, as the ground crew struggled to manhandle the portable stairs into place.  Unfortunately for the passengers and crew, Sunnydale's tiny airport lacked a proper jet way.  

The airplane door hissed open, and the lone passenger debarked, stepping out onto the metal platform.  The attractive brunette smiled evilly, surveying her surroundings with interest.  _Another city, another world to conquer.  _With that thought, Lilah Morgan descended the stairs, and disappeared into the foggy night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End Chapter 7

Damn, my evil muse has struck once again in the middle of the night.  That bitch!  Anyway, I hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.  One note:  I will be going on vacation the first week of  September, and my laptop will not be making the trip with me.  I plan to spend my time lounging on the beach, drinking margaritas, and ogling women in thong bikinis.  Also, I am going to once again attempt to quit smoking.  Depending on the severity of my nicotine withdrawal, the story may get a little dark.  Worst case scenario – I take it out on the Scoobies.  Gratuitous death may ensue.  But I digress.   

Look for chapter 8 sometime late next week.  We'll finally be hearing from Spike, and Buffy and the X Man may settle in for a little heart-to-heart.  We may even here from Giles, that daffy Brit.

Please keep the feedback coming.  I have self-esteem issues and need a daily dose of positive affirmation  (who am I kidding, I have no self-esteem.  I'm just on an ego trip!).

Anyway, that's it for now.  Until next time,

Your humble author

Rabid Squirrel.


	8. Treason and Chicken Wings

_Author:_  Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_:   "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaimer:_  If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction?  Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_  Follow-up to the travesty that was season 6.  Answers questions such as:  Why Spike is able to hit Buffy; why did Xander really leave Anya at the alter; where does Whistler get his wardrobe; and just what really is in a hot dog.  (Just kidding about the hot dog – nobody knows what they hell they put in those) 

_Spoilers:_  Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.  Also, this may be a crossover at some point, though I make no guarantees.

_Rating:   _R, for violence, strong language, sexual content, the untimely demise of cute little puppies and bunny rabbits, and quite possibly the clubbing of baby seals.  Sorry PETA, some animals were harmed in the writing of this story, including the baby duck I ran over while pondering the content of my next chapter.  

_Dedication_:  To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.

_Feedback:_   Thanks to all who have e-mailed asking for updates to this story.  My evil muse has taken an inexplicable leave of absence of late, therefore my inspiration has been severely lacking.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"_When angry, count to four; when very angry swear_." – Mark Twain

Chapter 8 

**Sunnydale docks**

**August 31, 2002**

**0300 hrs**

The vampire stepped gingerly over the remains of the now defunct sea captain, careful not to get any blood on his trademark black duster.  He gazed down at the macabre mess he had created, smiling cruelly.  _Damn, _he thought, his vampiric features receding back into his human visage.  T_he bloody wanker was right after all – the man really did have the sea in his blood.  _ Spike had the salty taste in his mouth to prove it.   Spitting disdainfully on the blood-soaked floor, he kicked open the metal door and strode out of the ship's bridge, his coattails flying in the brisk coastal breeze, giving him the appearance of some sort of gothic superman.  Foregoing the ladder, the vampire gracefully swung over the metal railing, opting to free fall the thirty feet to the main deck below.  He landed with nary a sound, quickly righting himself and making for the gangplank connecting the vessel to the stone quay below.  Halfway down the metal bridge the vampire stopped, turning to look at the vessel he had just left.  __

_Twenty two, _Spike thought to himself.  He'd never killed that many before at one time.  Mass murder had always seemed ostentatious to him, the trademark of one who had something to prove to the world.  Spike had no such illusions  He was once the big bad – William the fucking Bloody – and would be so again.  He'd taken the first step tonight, tearing through the ship's crew like the wrath of God.  He could still taste their fear, could still hear their pleas for mercy even as he ripped out their throats.  He had only drunk from the first ten or so.  Spike couldn't remember the exact number; In his frenzied state, he had lost count.  The remainder had died solely for his amusement.  

The corners of the Spike's mouth slowly twisted upwards as he took in the name of the ship.  _Mary Celeste.  _There was a certain karmic justice to it, Spike mused.  Like its namesake, this vessel too was now truly a ghost ship.  Adequately pleased with himself, Spike proceeded down the metal bridge and onto the darkened docks, quickly disappearing into the shadows.  

Had he not been so preoccupied, he might have noticed the figure perched high atop the harbormaster's office, observing him with keen interest.  The man, dressed completely in white, watched as the vampire melted into the darkness.  Then he too turned, and became lost in the moonless Sunnydale night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Warehouse Loft, Sunnydale Industrial Park**

**Sunday, September 1**

**1000 hrs**

Xander Harris didn't mind working on Sundays, though to be honest he'd never been a particularly big fan of the first day of the calendar week.  To him, it was just a postponement of the inevitable:  Monday always seemed to come, regardless of how he spent his Sundays.  

On any given Sunday afternoon – until recently Xander hadn't been aware that there even was a Sunday a.m. –  he would plant himself on the couch with a six pack of Killian's and a dozen of the Bronze's _Inferno_ wings, watching whatever professional sport happened to be in season.  Today would have been pre-season football; the Brown's were playing the Chiefs, and Xander Harris fancied himself something of a Cleveland fan.  Maybe the fanatic loyalty of Dawg's fans had something to do with it, but Xander was fairly certain it was the Brown's perennial underdog status that had proven irresistible.  That was a quality he could readily identify with.   At any rate, Xander wouldn't be watching any football today.  And with the overtime pay he would be getting for this job, he wasn't all that disappointed.  That is, at least about the football.

Working weekends also gave Xander an opportunity for a little personal introspection, though he'd since come to realize that being alone with his thoughts wasn't necessarily a good thing.  More than anything else, there was one thought that had occupied his every waking moment for the past month.  _Torment, thy name is Buffy._

If someone had told him six weeks ago that Buffy Summers was in love with him, he could have died a happy man.  He'd waited six years to hear those words from her, and just when it seemed that the impossible might happen, it no longer mattered to him.  _Or did it?  _Therein lies the problem.

At a basic level, Xander knew he was in love with Buffy.  He could feel it whenever she was near, the way that, for one brief moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist, and it was just he and Buffy.  He tried to rationalize it, tried to ascribe his reactions to something as simple and mundane as lust.  After all, Buffy was a beautiful woman; there was no denying that.  But he knew it went far deeper.  Xander had known lust in his life, quite a few times in fact.  His ill-advised rendezvous with Faith had been just that.  Xander had entertained no romantic feelings for Faith, other than those of a carnal nature.  The story with Cordelia had been much the same, though unique in its own right.  Cordy had represented the unachievable in the Sunnydale High social hierarchy:  Every girl wanted to be her, every guy wanted to have her.  Xander had accomplished the latter, if not in the Biblical sense, then at least in a practical sense.  He hadn't sought out a relationship with Queen C; it was just one life's little cruel jokes:  As the old adage said, opposites attract.  He and Cordy had been living proof of that.  Hindsight being what it was, Xander knew that his relationship with Cordy couldn't be attributed solely to the stirrings in his pants.  Deep down inside, he knew that his motivation for dating her had been even more selfish than that.  He had done it, at least in part, to spite Buffy.

And then of course, there was Anya.  His relationship with Anya was one borne out of desperation and loneliness, not a solid foundation to base a relationship on, but a foundation nonetheless.  Anya had been a work in progress, someone to occupy both his time and his bed.  After a time, their relationship had grown, albeit slowly, to the point where they felt comfortable together.  Comfortable enough for Xander to propose, just not enough to follow through on his promise.

That was it, the abridged version of Alexander Lavelle Harris' romantic life.  Though Buffy had never actually been an active – or even willing – participant, she was the common thread that tied it all together.  And for that reason he hated her.  He hated her for sabotaging any chance he had at a normal life, hated her for ruining him for all other women; Most of all, he hated her for having the audacity to love him when he had finally gotten over her.

Willow was another problem entirely.  He wasn't worried about their friendship; after the events of this summer – and the recent events in his bedroom – he knew that they could survive anything.  The problem was that she was leaving.  Giles had insisted, and Willow had agreed, that she needed proper training to learn to control her power.  She couldn't just eschew the magic arts altogether; given her experiences, that was no longer an option.  So come this Friday, Giles would accompany Willow to England, where she would study with a proper coven outside of Kent, wherever the hell that was.  Xander didn't know how long she would be gone; he only knew that she would stay as long as it took.  With Willow gone, Xander would no longer have a valid reason to avoid Buffy, at least not any reason that he could admit to.  Willow had been his buffer; the shame she felt at her actions had placed a great deal of strain on her friendship with Buffy, and as result she was uncomfortable in the Slayer's presence.  Buffy had respected her wishes; giving Willow the space and time she needed to heal.  The awkward group dynamic had been a blessing for Xander, keeping Buffy at arm's length.  That was about to change, and Xander was not looking forward to it. 

_God, when did I become so fucked up?  It's not like my life has totally gone to shit.  I have a good job, a nice apartment and a-a-a….a good job.  Shit. _For Xander, it was a bittersweet epiphany, to realize that he'd both succeeded and failed at the same time.  He'd succeeded in that he had finally managed to make something of himself, at least career-wise.  He was earning far more money than his drunken bastard of a father ever had, but if anything, his personal life had only regressed.  In high school, at least he had known where he stood, even if he hadn't been altogether happy about his situation at the time.  He'd had a solid core of friends, and the best years of his life still lie ahead of him.  Now he wasn't so sure.  His family (meaning the Scooby Gang – he seldom acknowledged his biological family)  was fractured, and the outlook for his love life could only be described as bleak.  

_Negative much Xander?  _Well dammit; he had a right to be.  If he wanted to be cynical, so be it.  It was his prerogative.  He'd tried to be optimistic, tried to take the nice guy route.  But he knew better.  In the real world, the nice guy didn't necessarily get the woman.  In the real world, nice guys slept alone, or at best, with someone they didn't really love, or who didn't love them.  Real life wasn't a TV show kids:  You didn't resolve all your problems in under an hour, you didn't have a loving family, and the good guys didn't always win.  And even when they did, the victory was always tempered by the knowledge that the next bad guy to come along would be even worse than the last.  For Xander, that pretty much summed up his life.  _One step forward, two steps back.  _

At least he still had his work.  Unlike relationships, construction was something Xander universally excelled at.  He'd come a long way in just two years, rising from an entry-level puke to project supervisor.  He'd done it on his own terms --  no patronage, no help from his friends.  He had this job because he'd worked hard and exceeded expectations.  That was something even the Hellmouth couldn't take from him.  At least he hoped not.  One could never be sure in this town.

Unfortunately for Xander, the sanctity of the workplace offered no respite from the forces of evil, even on a Sunday.  Xander was by nature a suspicious person, and the circumstances surrounding his present assignment weren't helping matters in the least.  In fact, they were giving him the wiggins.  The client, whom Xander had never met, was ostensibly a dealer in rare antiquities, and needed a temporary facility to warehouse his collection until a more permanent location could be arranged.  As far as Xander could see, there were two obvious problems with that story:  1)  Sunnydale wasn't exactly a mecca for antique collectors (with the possible exception of one Rupert Giles); and 2)  Unless NATO had taken up antiquities theft, the security specifications were obscenely excessive.  

In testimony to the latter observation, the two visible entrances to the apartment had been outfitted with 3-inch reinforced titanium doors, the cost of each roughly equal to what Xander earned in six months' time; the security system wired to each had cost even more.  Xander had been there when the alarms had been installed, and as project leader had spoken briefly to the men charged with the installation.  Their demeanor had screamed ex-military, and their work did nothing to dispel that notion.  Quick, professional, and precise; there had been no problem on that end.  

Walking into the main living area, Xander always felt oddly like a rat in a ventilation shaft.  Per customer specification, all interior walls had been finished with a full inch of gleaming stainless steel, as were all floors and ceilings.  The overall effect was striking, if somewhat sterile in appearance.  Being a man,  Xander could appreciate the simplicity and atmosphere of the décor:  At the very least, it would be easy to clean.  Continuing his informal inspection, Xander unconsciously ran his hand over the impossibly smooth surface of the wall, his gaze unconsciously drifting upwards to the sprinkler system he had installed the previous day.  Instead of the halide version popular with the commercial sector, this client had insisted on a traditional H2O sprinkler system.  That facet of the job puzzled him.  If the client planned on storing antiques, why risk the water damage?  It didn't make any sense.  Xander shrugged off his doubts.  Few things in his life did make sense.  Why should his job be any different?

Satisfied that things were in order, at least where the job was concerned, Xander walked over to the adjoining storage facility.  Most of the work here had been sub-contracted out, to a vendor specified – not surprisingly –  by the client.  To call the storage room secure was an understatement of epic proportions.  In keeping with the interior motif, these walls too had been covered in stainless steel, though the entrance was even more secure than the outer doors, looking as if it had been plucked straight from a government surplus bunker.  Like the others, this door was constructed primarily of titanium, but had been additionally reinforced with horizontal fibersteel blast bars, 3-inch diameter cylinders that locked into place in recesses built into the door frame.  The manufacturers specs called for the door to maintain its integrity against pressure of up to 40,000 lbs. per square inch.  Xander had no doubt it would perform as expected; he just didn't want to be around when it was tested.  The only way into the room, unless one happened to have a pound of Semtex handy, was through the retinal scanner embedded in the wall.  The excessive security precautions had predictably prompted questions from Xander's crew, all of which had been politely and expertly brushed aside by his boss.  This of course compelled Xander to wonder just who this mysterious client really was, and what the hell he was doing in Sunnydale.  Six years of apocalypse and impending doom did not a trusting Xander make.

Hearing the front door swing open, Xander spun around in surprise.  He had expected to be alone this morning, taking inventory of the job and seeing to a few last-minute details.  Obviously, that was not the case.  

He didn't recognize the figure framed in the doorway, though there was something vaguely familiar about the man that Xander could not place.  Standing just a fraction under six foot and weighing no more than 200 pounds, the man was draped from head to toe in black, his expensive clothing more understated than it was ostentatious.  The stranger clutched a large metal attaché case firmly in his left hand, his right hand resting on the steel door handle, as if unsure he was welcome.  

Xander could only guess at the man's age, as his features gave no real indication.  The high, symmetrical cheekbones and aristocratic nose gave the man an almost regal appearance, hinting at his British ancestry.  He might have been described as handsome, if not for the scar originating near the top of his jaw line and extending to the corner of his mouth, a  souvenir of a childhood wound that had never properly healed.  The man's well tanned skin was deeply lined, whether from exposure to the elements or merely from aging one could not definitively tell.  His jet black hair was cropped short, almost – but not quite – in a military style.

By far the most distinctive feature of the man was his unnaturally blue eyes.  The deep cobalt blue seemed to extend beyond the iris, fading, but never quite disappearing, as it spread to the white of the eye.  His gaze was penetrating, though not in a cold, unaffected manner.  His eyes held an indescribable warmth, a mirth that never seemed to vanish, even when he was not smiling.  Dark blue orbs locked with soft brown eyes as the man addressed Xander.

"I  apologize for the interruption.  I wasn't aware that anyone would be here today," the man said, with just a hint of an English accent.

"No problem. I was just finishing up," Xander assured his visitor.  "Is there something I can do for you?"  Although Xander had never seen the man before, he had a sneaking suspicion that the person standing before him was the mysterious client in question.

"You would be Alexander Harris," the man said confidently, more as an observation than a question.

Xander smiled wryly  "Given the choice, probably not.  Unfortunately, no one consulted me on the matter, so here I am." 

The man gave Xander a knowing grin.  "Life can be funny that way," he said, his gaze shifting from Xander to the interior of the nearly finished apartment.

_And it just keeps getting funnier_, Xander thought to himself, bending to pick up his clipboard.  "I didn't catch your name."

The man continued his cursory inspection, ambling slowly along the far wall, running his hand over the smooth contours of the steel.  "No, I don't suppose you did," he confirmed, turning to look at Xander,  "I'm Danyael."

"You gotta a last name to go with that?"

"Just Danyael."

"Ahhh…so you're one of those," bemoaned Xander, studiously scanning the work order fastened to the clipboard.

"One of those?" 

Xander looked up. "One-namers.  You know, like Madonna, only without the cone-bra."

Danyael smiled .  _Whistler was right – he did like the kid._  He gestured to their surroundings, implicitly changing the subject. "I see you're almost finished here, a full week ahead of schedule no less."

"I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that you're the client I've been hearing so little about," Xander ventured, though he already knew the answer.  Danyael confirmed his suspicions with a slight nod.  

"Well, I have to admit, your little bonus clause was an effective incentive," Xander conceded, recalling the sizable down-payment he had made on his new Dodge.  _California air quality standards be damned, Xander's got himself a truck._  "Though the boss breathing down my neck 24/7 for the past three weeks might have also played a small part."

"Your boss can be a most difficult man," Danyael empathized.  Dealing with his own master wasn't exactly a walk in the park.

"I take it you've met him then?"  Xander wouldn't wish that on his worst enemies.  _Well, maybe Spike_…

"I've had the unique pleasure, yes," confirmed Danyael, observing the expression on Xander's face.  "It could be worse, Alexander.  You should meet my boss sometime." He knew that Xander wouldn't though, at least not in this lifetime.

"Please, call me Xander.  Everybody else does…. except for my mother, and Willow when she's pissed at me."

"Willow?  Your girlfriend?"  

The look on Xander's face said it all.  "We uh, went that route once or twice," he explained.  "She's my best friend."

"There's a reason they call it the road less traveled, Xander." 

Xander wasn't one to give in to convention – sometimes you just had to be different.  "I like to think of myself as an intrepid trailblazer.  Either that or resilient non-conformist.  I haven't really settled on a theme yet."

"How about impulsive do-gooder?"

"That too."  This guy certainly had him pegged.  "You sure we've never met before?"  .

"Positive.  I'd remember if we had."  

"Good point.  So…where were we?"

"Your friend Willow?"

"Right.  Willow.  She's….well, she's Willow."

"She has an unusual name.  Pretty, but unusual."

_That's Willow in a nutshell.  _Xander shrugged. "Her parents were hippies – grew up in the sixties.  I guess they never really got it out of their system."

"Are you referring to the drugs, or just the lifestyle?" asked Danyael.  

"I wasn't aware there was a distinction," admitted Xander.  "Anyway, they did the whole overcompensating parenting bit.  Made Willow a little neurotic."

"But she turned out all right?"

"Better than all right."  _Except for the whole varicose vein,  Wicked Witch of the West, I'm-gonna-end-the-world, bit.  _"She's the best thing to ever happen to me."

"Kinda throws the whole "bad childhood excuse out the window" doesn't it?"

"You're preachin' to the choir, brother."

"I take it your own childhood didn't exactly resemble an episode of the _Brady Bunch_."

"More like the _Wild Bunch," _lamented Xander.  "My parents preferred their drugs in the liquid form."

"I don't mean to pry."

Xander smiled skeptically.  "Nobody ever does.  But, hey, don't worry about it.  My life's an open book."  _One of those coffee-table books that no one ever bothers to read, but a book nonetheless._

"Really?  No skeleton's in the closet?  No demons in your past?" 

"Nope – no skeletons anyway.   The demon part's debatable.  But enough about my life.  You seem to know quite a bit about me, but I don't know the first thing about you."

"I'm afraid there's not much to tell.  I've lived a long, unremarkable life."  It wasn't exactly a lie; it just depended on one's definition of unremarkable.

"You don't really look that old," Xander observed, not intending his statement as a compliment.

"I get that a lot.  I was born in the 60's; I just look young for my age."  That too, was the truth…after a fashion.  Danyael had been born in the 60's; he just hadn't bothered to specify which century or millennium.  Why get bogged down in details?

"So what, that would make you ….old?"

"Didn't anybody ever teach you to respect your elders?" 

"Obviously you've never met my parents," commented Xander, evoking a grin from Danyael.

_The kid is funny, _Danyael admitted to himself, reaching into his pocket.  He pulled out an engraved silver cigarette case, opened it, and withdrew a single Marlboro.  Putting the cigarette in his mouth, he reached into another pocket, producing his venerable Zippo.  "You mind if I smoke?" he asked as he activated the lighter.

"They're your lungs," Xander shrugged. "Though it will cost you a question."

"Ask away," Danyael replied, taking a long drag on the menthol cigarette, not the least bit concerned about the potential health effects.  He had no reason to be.

"Why Sunnydale?"

"Excuse me?" Danyael asked, not fully understanding the question.

"What brings you to Sunnydale?  Wouldn't it make more sense for an antique dealer to locate to LA?"

"I suppose it would, if I were an antique dealer.  I'm really just an avid collector.  This is sort of an extended vacation for me."

"Let me get this straight," said Xander, the disbelief evident in his voice.  "You came to Sunnydale, the armpit of California, for a vacation?"  _The Bureau of Tourism really needs to revise those brochures_.  "God, your travel agent must really hate you."  

"Travel agent?  This is the twenty-first century, Xander.  Ever heard of the internet?"

"Touché," countered Xander, unperturbed.  "So what then, you're in Sunnydale scoping out garage sales?"  Not that Sunnydale didn't have its share of antiques.  They just weren't the type you would want to collect, unless of course you happened to belong to the Initiative.

"Actually, I'm here to look up an old acquaintance."

"Visiting old friends is good."

"I didn't say he was a friend, Xander."

"Visiting old enemies can be good too.  You know, cathartic and all."

"There's a little unfinished business between us," revealed Danyael.  "You might say that I have a few demons to slay." _Well, one in particular anyway._

"Then you came to the right place.  If there's one thing Sunnydale has an abundance of, it's demons."

"Are we talking about the figurative variety, or the literal?"  

"Take your pick."  Xander knew both kinds.

"I'll assume you're talking about the former."

Xander smirked;  _Assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups.  _"If that's what you want to believe, far be it from me to rain on your parade."

"Judging by your response, I'm guessing there's more to this town than meets the eye."  

"Mayberry it ain't," confirmed Xander.  "A friendly word of advice:  Watch your back.  Sunnydale's bite is definitely worse than it's bark."

"I'll bear that in mind," promised Danyael.  "All kidding aside, Xander, I like what you've done with the place."  As if Xander had any choice in the matter.

"So it gets your stamp of approval?"

"There is a reason I specifically requested your services, Xander.  Your work is first-rate.

Not accustomed to receiving accolades of any kind, Xander felt his skin turn a distinct shade of crimson.  "I've embarrassed you," observed Danyael, somewhat amused.  "I apologize.  I should have known that you weren't the narcissistic type."

Xander recovered quickly from his momentary embarrassment; he had a lot of practice in that department.  "My profound sense of humility aside, I don't suppose you'd care to share with me the reason for the mini Fort Knox over there?"

"Aahhh yes, the vault.  I was wondering when you'd get to that.  I don't suppose you have much demand for those." 

"Not from antique collectors anyway," Xander divulged.  "Exactly what kind of artifacts do you deal in, if you don't mind me asking?"

"A little bit of this; a little bit of that.  Mostly I collect religious artifacts, occult pieces and the like."

That last statement set off an alarm in Xander's head.  Religious artifacts, the occult, and the Hellmouth generally made for a volatile combination.  "So, you're into the occult.  You should fit right in here in Sunnydale."  The apprehension in Xander's voice was palpable.

"It's more of an investment than a passion," Danyael assured Xander.  "It's not like I worship the devil."  

Xander cast a sidelong glance at Danyael.  "That's a load off my mind.  My friends and I burned down a Satanic temple last week.  I wouldn't want to be accused of a hate crime."

"I promise not to alert the ACLU," assured Danyael. "And now that we've established our mutual dislike of Satan, maybe you could answer a question for me?"

"Shoot."

"What does one do for fun in these parts?"

"Fun?" repeated Xander, as if unfamiliar with the concept.

"Yeah, fun.  You know – amusement, entertainment, enjoyment, pleasure.  In other words, how's the nightlife in Sunnydale?"

_Disturbing, _thought Xander, though he did not voice that sentiment.  "There's actually not a lot to do in Sunnydale.  It gets kind of uh, dead after the sun goes down," he said, managing not to choke on his unintentional pun.

"I see.  So what do you do to entertain yourself?"

Xander pondered the question.  He wasn't ready to divulge his close personal relationship with Rosy Palmer and her four sisters just yet.  "To tell you the truth, I haven't had much of a social life lately.  I uh, recently went through an ugly breakup with my fiancée, and I don't think the dating scene's quite ready for me just yet."

"Really.  I would think a successful young man like yourself would have to fight off the woman."

"It's not so much fighting them off as fighting with them.  I kind of have relationship issues in general."

"Perhaps it's the women in your life that are the problem," offered Danyael.

Xander frowned as the implication of the question set in.  "You're not coming on to me are you?  Cause if you are, you should know that I don't swing that way.  Not that I'm a homophobe or anything.  I mean, my friend Willow's gay…that is, she was….or maybe she still is.  I'm not really sure, but the point is I'm okay with it and I'm just babbling so I'm gonna shut up now."

Xander's response elicited a hearty laugh from Danyael.  "You needn't worry Xander.  Your manly virtue is in no danger of being compromised.  I too play for the home team."

Embarrassed once more, Xander nodded.  "Glad we got that cleared up.  Look, if there's nothing else, I was just about to mosey on out of here."

"I think we covered the important things," Danyael assured him.  "I don't want to keep you from enjoying the rest of your weekend."

"Not much chance of that."  

"You should be more optimistic, Xander.  Remember, the cup can be either half full, or half empty.  It all depends on your perspective."

"Actually," Xander explained for Danyael's benefit, "it depends on whether you're pouring or drinking."  Xander fully intended to be doing the latter as soon as possible, though in moderation.  The lessons of his parents hadn't escaped him. 

"That too," admitted Danyael with a knowing smile.  He extended his hand to Xander. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Xander."  

Xander shook the offered hand, noting the unusually firm grip of his new friend.  "Likewise.  Maybe I'll see you around."

Danyael nodded as Xander grabbed his clipboard and made his exit.  "You can count on it."

As soon as the door closed behind Xander, Danyael reached into his trench coat, pulling out a small satellite phone.  Punching the speed dial button followed by the number 1, he addressed the party on the other end of the encrypted line.  "It's me.  Phase 1 is complete.  The key has been isolated and the appropriate safeguards are in place:  I will engage the Slayer at a time and place of my choosing.  Confirm that the enemy has accelerated the timetable.  Their agents are in place as we speak.  I await further instruction as to the disposition of the L.A. contingent and the ensouled vampire."  Danyael hit the end button, stabbing out his cigarette on the steel countertop.  The fun was about to begin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**1606 Revello Drive**

**Sunday, September 1**

**1045 hrs**

Sunday morning meant many things to many different people.  To some, it meant spending time with the family; to others, it meant going to church; still others used the opportunity to sleep in.  To Dawn Summers, it meant quality vegging time in front of the TV, a dubious habit she had acquired from a certain Xander-shaped friend.

Assuming her position on the couch, she ran down her checklist.  "Ice cream…check.  Cell phone…check.  Caffeine…check.  Remote…shit!"  Cursing her sister, Dawn quickly scanned the living room.  Unable to locate her quarry, she reluctantly plunged her hand between the sofa cushions, rooting around in the filth for the elusive clicker.   _Jackpot.  _Her fingers curled around the small plastic device, pulling it out, along with a potato chip well past its prime.  "God Buffy," Dawn muttered, "I swear, if you weren't the Slayer…"

"If I weren't the Slayer…what?" Buffy asked nonchalantly, appearing unbidden from the kitchen.  

Dawn ignored the question.  "You think that just for once you could put the remote on the coffee table like a civilized person.  I'm missing wrestling."

Buffy considered that.  "Nope," she said, shaking her head apologetically.  "I'm a primal warrior, sis;  I predate civilization.  Why do you bother to watch that crap, anyway.  It's not exactly realistic."

"Realism's overrated.  And, hey, sweaty buff men in underwear – not exactly a bad thing.  Unless you're gay.  You're not gay are you?"

"I am having inappropriate thoughts about a sixteen-year old girl," confessed the Slayer.

"Do these thoughts involve inflicting bodily harm on said sixteen-year old girl?"

"Yup."

"Does the girl's name happen to be Dawn?"

"Yup."

"Gotcha.  Not gay."

"Glad we cleared that up," Buffy said, unusually cheerfully for a Sunday morning.  "Judging by your ensemble, I take it your plans for the day don't actually involve leaving the house?"

"If by that you're asking if I intend to spend the entire day on the couch, then the answer is yes.  But I take offense to the implication that my outfit is not worthy of public viewing."

"Dawn, you're wearing cutoffs and a tank top that's two sizes too small.  Only prostitutes dress like that."

"Don't forget trailer-trash," added Dawn helpfully.

"You're neither of those things, at least not that I'm aware of."

"You're right," admitted Dawn.  "But I'm comfortable, and I look cute in these shorts."

"You call those shorts?  They barely cover your underwear."

"Underwear?  Damn, I knew I forgot something."

That was a little too much information for Buffy.  "I did not need to know that."

"Relax sis.  I'm only kidding," Dawn assured her sister.   "I'm wearing a thong."  She truly enjoyed getting a rise out of Buffy.  It was one of life's little pleasures.

"Dawn!" yelled a horrified Buffy.  "For Christsake, you're only sixteen."

_Advantage, Dawn_.  "Only sixteen?  This coming from the girl, who, at the ripe old age of – what was it – sixteen, gave it up to a vampire?  And need I bring up those leather pants you're so fond of?  They don't exactly leave a lot to the imagination, if you know what I'm saying.  We both know Riley wasn't the only one going "commando" around here."  

_Alright.  Take a deep breath Buffy.  Don't kill your sister.  Just count to four…_

Dawn wasn't finished.  "And do I even need to point out the outfit you have on?  If I'm not mistaken, that lace skirt you're wearing looks suspiciously like the one I bought last month.  The same one that you said was too short for me.  The one you said makes me look like a whore."

Buffy took a deep breath.  _One, _she counted mentally.

"We both know that skirt looks soooo much better on me.  Even Xander thought so.  I mean, he was checking me out…."

_Two…Three._

"Hey Buffy, did you know that when you get really upset that vein in your forehead sticks out?  You've got that whole Frankenstein thing going.  I gotta say; not a very flattering look for you."

_….Four.  Screw Slayer code – kill sister._

Fate, in the form of the doorbell, inexplicably intervened to spare Dawn Summer's life.  Buffy reluctantly postponed her attack and went to answer the door.  She was not expecting the person standing on the other side.

Xander blinked in surprise as the petite blonde Slayer swung open the door.  He was not expecting her to be at home this morning.  She was supposed to be visiting Giles.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.  Xander was the first to find his voice.

"Hey," he greeted Buffy quietly, almost – but not quite – concealing the uncertainty he felt towards the Slayer.

"Hey yourself," she replied softly, her argument with Dawn forgotten for the moment.

Xander ventured a furtive glance inside, praying to whatever God was out there that Dawn was home.  Spying the girl on the couch, he turned back to Buffy.  "You mind if I come in?"

_Yes, _Buffy almost said, but stopped herself.  "Uh, no, not at all.  Dawn's inside watching TV."  Buffy stepped aside, letting her [former?] friend inside.  She glanced up at Xander as he passed, unable to meet his gaze.  "I, uh, thought you'd be with Willow."

Xander looked to Dawn, trying to get a read on the situation.  The look on her face was not encouraging.  _You're alone on this one, Xander._

He looked back to Buffy, who suddenly seemed to find the floor very interesting.  "I got the impression she wanted to be alone for a while.  I guess she needs a little Willow time."

"Oh.  I just assumed that, you know, since you two were….together…'

"Together?"

For the first time that day, Buffy looked Xander in the eyes.  _Was he really going to make her say it?_

Dawn chose that ill-timed moment to join the conversation.  "Earth to Xander, she means that you're sleeping together."

Xander gritted his teeth.  "Thanks Dawn.  I got that."

"Glad to be of help," she said, already turning her attention back to the choreographed violence on the TV.

"Look, Buffy:  Willow and I, we're not…"together" in the sense of being – well – together.  It's kind of complicated."

Buffy's looked up at Xander, her green eyes somber, tears welling up and threatening to spill out.  "It's okay Xander.  You don't have to explain.  I get it."  Her tone said otherwise.

"Buffy, I don't think you…"

"No.  I said it's fine.  Really.  I just, I'm sorry, I have to go."  With that, she pushed past Xander, fairly running to the curb.  She jumped into the Jeep, turned over the engine, and coated the asphalt with a fresh coat of rubber as she tore off down the street.

An incredulous Xander turned to Dawn, his frustration evident.  "What the hell was that?"

With an exaggerated sigh Dawn shut off the TV, flashing Xander a sympathetic smile.  "You want the short version or the long version?"

"The short version.  Emphasis on short."

"Why don't you come over and sit by doctor Dawn.  This could take a while."

"I thought I was getting the short version?"

"You are.  The long version would take all day."

Xander obediently walked over to the couch and plopped down beside Dawn.  "All right, let me have it Dawnster."

"Let me start by saying that you are without a doubt the most oblivious man in the world."

"Huh," was all Xander could manage.

"My point exactly.  Xander, honey, you have a lot to learn about the female species."

"And you're going to show me?"

_Oh yeah, I'd like to show you a few things.  _"Yes I am, but not here.  We're going to the Bronze, and you're going to buy me lunch?"

"I am?"

"You are.  That's my fee.  Take it or leave it."

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

"In that case, my chariot awaits.  Lead on oh wise one."

"Not just yet grasshopper," Dawn intoned in her worst Asian accent, getting up from the couch and walking to the stairs.  "I have to change first.  Buffy says I look like a slut."

"You look fine to me."

"You bet your ass I do," smirked Dawn, bounding up the stairs.  _And what a sweet ass it is._

Xander glanced up at Dawn, watching as she disappeared up the staircase, admiring the fleeting view.  _Damn_.  _When the hell did Dawn turn into such a little hottie?_  The little voice inside his head answered the question for him:  _About the same time you became a pervert Alexander.  For God's sake, she's only sixteen.  Stop thinking with your dick._

Xander shook his head violently, trying to quell his inner voice.  _Damn Conscience.  Why don't you mind your own business?_

A short moment later Dawn came flying down the stairs, suitably attired for public viewing.  She took in the view with a measure of amusement.  "Are you having a seizure, or is that just some weird guy thing?"

"A little from column A, a little from column B."  

"Did anyone ever tell you that you're a very strange person?"

"I get that a lot."

"Just so you know.  Anyway, let's go.  I'm hungry."  Dawn latched onto Xander's arm, forcibly dragging him through the door.  

"Ouch," protested Xander.  "You know, I'm kind of attached to that arm.  You mind easing up there, Slayer Jr.?"

"Buffalo Wings wait for no one, Xander."  

Xander managed to extricate himself from the exuberant teenager long enough to reach into his pocket and pull out his keys.  Dawn, meanwhile, simply glanced around in confusion.  "Uh, Xand; where's your rental car?"  The Chrysler was nowhere in sight.  In response, Xander hit the unlock button on his key fob, the lights on the jet-black Dodge Durango in front of them flashing once in recognition.

"That's yours," gasped Dawn in disbelief.  "Damn; that is so pimpin'."  

"Well you know," said Xander, opening the door for Dawn, "I thought if this whole construction thing didn't work out…"

"God Xand," Dawn said, sliding into the leather seat, "this must have set you back a few scoobies.  How the hell can you afford this?"

"Someday I'll introduce you to the wonders of 0% financing Dawn.  Besides, I made a killing on this last job."  Xander started up the truck, the 8-cylinder engine roaring to life.

Dawn raised a suspicious eyebrow.  "You didn't mean that in the literal sense did you?"

"Nope.  No work-related killings to speak of," he confessed, pulling out onto the street.

"Sorry.  I had to ask.  It comes with the turf."

"Gotcha," Xander nodded.  "So then, shall we commence with the lesson?"  

"I don't work on an empty stomach."

"OK then;  How goes things on the Summer's front?"  

"You know, the usual.  I go to school.  I come home.  Buffy bosses me around.  I go out with friends.  A pack of vampires tries to kill me.  I get my ass saved by a pair of giant wolves.  The usual."

"You care to run that last part by me again?"

"What?  You mean the vampires and the wolves?  You really had to be there."

"It does lose something in the translation," admitted Xander.  "But humor me anyway."

"There's really not a lot to tell.  Stacey and I were walking to the Bronze last night when a dozen overgrown mosquitoes mistook us for a Happy Meal.  Cujo number 1 and Cujo number 2 appear out of nowhere and, voila', all-you-can-eat vampire buffet.  Next thing you know, the vampires are all Kibbles N Bits and I have two new best friends with fleas."

"And strangely enough, no part of that story surprises me in the least.  Does that make me jaded, or just Sunnydale pragmatic?"

"I think it means you spend too much time around my sister."

"That's not really an issue anymore," mumbled Xander, not intending his words for Dawn's consumption.

"I heard that.  You do remember that I was made from Buffy, as disturbing as that may be."

"So what, you've got enhanced hearing now?"  That was a troubling thought for Xander.  _Got to remember not to think out loud._

"Among other things.  I think I may have gotten the whole package deal."

"Such as…?"

"Well for starters, I've got the whole Spidey-sense thing going on.  I could sense those vampires coming before I ever saw them."

"But that's a good thing, right?  I don't want my favorite Summer's girl getting drained by any vamp."

_Favorite Summer's girl?  Damn, this is getting serious.  I've got my work cut out for me.  _Dawn let it slide for the time being.  "I guess.  I just wish I knew why it was happening now."

"I can't help you there.  Have you told Giles yet?"

Dawn nodded.  "Buffy was going to mention it today, provided there were no end-of-the-world crises on the horizon."

"I think we've pretty much met our quota on those," said Xander, pulling into the Bronze's nearly empty parking lot.  

"Don't jinx us," warned Dawn, climbing out the door of the truck.  "You are familiar with Murphy's Law?"

"I live my life by it, Dawn.  But you forget, bad things only happen to us on Tuesdays.  Today is Sunday"

"You know, Xand; I never really thought about it, but you're right.  Bad things always seem to happen to us on Tuesdays.  Why is that, do you think?"

Xander pondered that point as he held the Bronze's front door open for Dawn.  "It's almost like we're on a TV show or something."  _Wouldn't that be funny; my life as a TV show. It'd have to air on CBS._

Dawn dismissed the issue with a wave of her hand.  "I guess it's just one of those things."

"You're probably right.  No sense in obsessing about it.  We're paranoid enough the way it is."  He pulled out a chair for Dawn, and then took a seat beside her.

"Agreed.  We'll leave the paranoia to the conspiracy-theorists and the UFO geeks."

Xander didn't have the heart to remind her they qualified as both.  Lunch was more important at any rate.  "So what'll be Key girl?  Dead cow on a bun, or nearly salmonella-free Buffalo wings?"

"Doublemeat burgers kind of cured me of my beef addiction, Xand."

"Sorry, I forgot.  Wings it is."  He gestured the lone waiter over to their table, a twenty two year-old who happened to double as both bartender and manager.  

"Harris, you here again?"

"What can I say Tony, a man's gotta eat."

"No man eats as much as you do.  You'd think someone with an appetite like yours would have learned how to cook by now."

"If I did that, you'd go out of business," reasoned Xander.

"Truer words have never been spoken.  So tell me, who's your adorable friend?"

"Watch it Tony," warned Xander, "sixteen will get you twenty.  This is Dawn summers, Buffy's _younger _sister."

"A Summer's girl, huh.  I thought I recognized her.  So, is she a chip off the old block or what?"

Dawn had heard about enough.  "Hello; I'm sitting right here!"

"Sorry Dawn.  Allow me to introduce you:  Dawn Summers, meet Tony Curtis.  Tony and I went to high school together."

Dawn shook the offered hand.  "You knew Xander in high school and you still socialize with him?  You are truly a brave man."

"I see you have your sister's sense of humor," remarked Tony.  "What can I say Dawn, I like to help the less fortunate."

"Don't worry; I won't hold it against you," Dawn assured him.  "After all, you did survive Sunnydale High, which says a lot about your place on the evolutionary scale, natural selection being what it is."

Tony nodded in agreement.  "And here I thought I was just lucky.  Anyway, what can I get for you guys…no, wait; let me guess.  For you Xander:  2 dozen inferno wings with celery and ranch dressing, and a Black and Tan to wash it down."

"You never cease to amaze me Tony.  How do you do it?"

"It helps that you lack imagination.  And you Dawn, do you lack imagination as well."

"Guilty as charged.  I'll have a dozen spicy wings with a diet coke."

Shaking his head in dismay at their lack of culinary appreciation, Tony strolled back to the kitchen to put in their orders, leaving the two Scoobies to their own devices.  Satisfied that they were alone, Xander raised his eyes to Dawn, "So let me have it Dr. Laura."

"Please, Dr. Laura's a hack.  You can't put a price on my services."

"So explain to me again why I'm buying you lunch?"

"Because you love and adore me.  That, and I'm broke."

"Wait a second; I thought you were rich now?"

"Buffy's rich.  I'm a destitute teenager.  You do the math."

"All right; forget I asked.  Just let me have it."

"Okay, let's start out by clarifying a few things."

"Shoot."

Dawn took a deep breath before continuing.  "Number one;  My sister is utterly and completely, head-over-heels, singing in the rain in, make me wanna vomit, in love with you."  She paused, giving Xander a chance to digest that revelation.

As it turned out, he didn't need it.  "Yeah, I've heard that version," he remarked, surprisingly unimpressed.

Momentarily surprised, Dawn took a moment to respond  "And you're not buying it?"

Xander shook his head solemnly.  "I believe there's a remote possibility that she thinks she's in love with me.  But it isn't the same thing."

"And you know this how?"

Xander turned the tables on Dawn.  "Do you want the short version or the long version?"

Dawn scowled.  "I think you know the answer to that."

"Right then.  Well, it goes something like this:  We both know that Buffy's love life reads like a modern day Shakespearean tragedy, albeit with a few demons thrown in for flavor."

"I'm following you so far."

Xander continued.  "She's been through a lot in the past few years, and her unstable personal life hasn't exactly helped matters.  First there was Deadboy, then Riley, and finally…"

"You can say his name."

"…And finally Spike.  At any rate, the men in her life have all either abandoned her or hurt her in some way."

"And this affects the present situation how?"

"I'm getting to that, Dawn," he replied.  "Look, if I've learned one thing about your sister, it's that her biggest fear isn't dying or letting her friends down, or anything like that.  Her biggest fear is being alone.  If you think about it, all of her relationships have been short-term:  Your father left, your mother's dead, boyfriends have come and gone, and even you haven't been there for the duration."  Xander paused a moment, interpreting the look on Dawn's face.  "I'm not saying this to dredge up bad memories, Dawn.  I'm just trying to make a point."

"I know.  It doesn't make it any easier though."

"I'm sorry.  If there was another way…"

"It's alright Xander.  I'm a big girl."

 "Anyway, we're all aware that the life expectancy of a Slayer barely exceeds that of your average fruit fly.  So far, Buffy's defied the odds, but she knows she's living on borrowed time, and that makes the time she has all the more important.  Buffy realizes this.  She wants somebody to be there for her, somebody that's safe, that won't bail on her at the first sign of trouble."

"And that's where you come in?"

Xander nodded in the affirmative.  "Buffy knows that I care about her, that I was even in love with her, and that I would never leave her.  But she's confusing her insecurities and loneliness for love.  Buffy doesn't love me; not in that way.  She may want to love me; she may need me; she may even think she loves me, but it's not the same thing as real love."

Dawn let that sink in before speaking.  "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"Do you love Buffy?"

"You know I do."

"That's not what I meant.  Are you _in love _with Buffy?"

"Why do I suddenly feel like I'm on the witness stand?"

"Why do I feel like you're stalling for time?"

"You have a suspicious nature."

"It's called survival instinct, Xander.  And you're still avoiding the question."

"I was hoping your short attention span would kick in."

"Xander…."

"No."

"No, what?"

"No, I am not in love with Buffy."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Okay."

"Okay?  You're not disappointed in me?"

Dawn shrugged indifferently.  "Not any more than usual.  Buffy had her chance.  I can't blame you for moving on."

Xander was suitably impressed.  "Wow.  That's….very adult of you, Dawn."

"What can I say…I rationalize at a twelfth-grade level."

That one almost slipped by Xander.  "Wait a second…"

Dawn cut him off mid-sentence.  "You've had your say, Xand; it's my turn now."

"But…"

"Xander, sweetie, don't make me hurt you," threatened Dawn, the benign smile on her face is stark contrast to the tone of her voice.  Xander wisely shut up.  He knew better than to incur the wrath of the hormonal sixteen year-old.  Dawn continued.

"I know things aren't exactly ideal between you two, and I know that's largely Buffy's fault.  So I don't blame you for being angry with her."

"I'm not.…."

"You are.  Admit it.  Accept it.  Move on.  As long as you're hung up on the whole Buffy/Spike issue, you're never going to be able to move forward.  And I'm not thrilled with the concept of having Buffy moping around the house for the next two years, pining away after you."

"So you want me to forget everything that's happened and hook up with your sister because it'll make your life easier."

"Yes…well, that and you two are retarded for each other."

"I resent the retarded connotation.  Also, as sales pitches go – yours needs work."

"Sue me.  Besides, it's the underlying truth that counts.  You love Buffy.  Buffy loves you.  Am I the only one with any semblance of sanity in our dysfunctional little family?"

"When did you become so judgmental?"

"I'm not judgmental – just observant."  Dawn spied movement out of the corner of her eye.  "And I'd really love to continue this conversation, but our food's here."

The two grew silent as the waiter reappeared, a tray of food balanced precariously in each hand.  "All right you two, soup's on."  He placed the proper tray in front of each, enjoying the view of the young girl's décolletage as he glance down at her.  _Sixteen my ass, _Tony thought to himself as he set their drinks in front of them.  Tearing his eyes away from Dawn, Tony grinned wickedly at Xander.  "You two enjoy yourselves today, all right?"

Rolling his eyes, Xander bid his friend farewell.  "Thanks Tony, I think we can handle it from here."

Tony gave Xander a mock salute, retreating once again to the kitchen, but not before getting in the last word.  Xander could just barely hear his reply:  "I'll bet…"

He glanced at Dawn out of the corner of his eye, checking to see if Dawn had heard as well.  She had.

"You know your friend was looking down my shirt?"  Not that she wasn't at least a little flattered, but still, could he have been more obvious?

"What, do you expect an apology?  He's a guy.  We do that sort of thing."

"So you've checked me out too," asked Dawn, her voice silky smooth.  She liked seeing Xander squirm.  He gave good squirm.

_Don't answer her.  For the love of God, Xander, do not answer that question. _"I'm not going to dignify that question with an answer."

"So you have.  You've checked me out.  Xander Harris has checked me out.  As I live and breath…."

"Dawn," groaned Xander.  "I have never checked you out.  I might have glanced appreciatively once or twice, but I have never, ever, checked you out.  You're like a sister to me."

Dawn arched her eyebrows.  "A sister?"

"Okay, maybe a cousin.  A second cousin…twice removed," relented Xander.  "But that is so not the point."

Dawn held up her hands in surrender.  "You're right Xand.  We're getting off the subject.  The point is my sister loves you, and I think you love her, too."

"Loved her," Xander corrected, "As in past tense.  I waited long enough."

"Whatever happened to "good things come to those who wait"?"

Xander shook his head, wiping the spicy buffalo sauce from his mouth.  "Old age comes to those who wait, Dawn.  Love may be eternal, the Xandman is not."

"Are you really that stupid, or just that damn stubborn?"

"I've been accused of both_.  _But I'm not the bad guy here, Dawn.  And I'm not Buffy's consolation prize either."

"So that's how it's gonna be?  You two are just going to keep on avoiding each other, pretending like nothing's wrong."

"Something's been wrong for a long time, Dawn.  That's not going to change anytime son.  And I know we can't avoid each other forever, but we both need some time to sort things out.  It's easier this way."

This was not going exactly as Dawn had planned.  It was time to cut her losses and regroup.  This battle would be fought another day.  "Fine.  I can see you're not going to change your mind anytime soon.  Just promise me one thing?"

"Name it."

"Talk to her…soon.  She at least deserves to know where she stands."

"For you Dawn, I'll do that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**New York City**

**Monday, September 22, 2202**

**0830**

There are many words to describe the act of treason.  Terms like treachery, subversion, duplicity, and sedition are often used to express this ultimate act of betrayal.  But none of these words adequately convey the sheer magnitude of embarking on such a course of action as betraying one's country, or in extreme cases, mankind as a whole.  More than most, Quentin Travers understood this.

He had arrived in town the previous day, ostensibly to attend a conference at the New York headquarters of the Watcher's North American Division (affectionately known to the new generation of American Watchers as NAD, as in gonad).  His real purpose had lead him here, to the Library Hotel, an upscale, if somewhat obscure, Madison Avenue hotel.  The hotel was itself an homage to the NY Public Library, each of its sixty suites arranged according to the Dewey decimal system, their decor based on a corresponding literary theme.  Not surprisingly, Quentin had been booked in the Mythology room.  He would have it no other way.  

Presently, he sat in the hotel's library/reading room, thumbing through a 19th century edition of  "The Prince" as he awaited his 8:30 meeting.  He didn't have to wait long.  

"Machiavelli," a baritone voice boomed in the nearly empty room  "Why does that not surprise me?"

Quentin looked up from his perusal of the classical tome, an expression of unadulterated disgust evident on his face.  He set down the book, but did not offer to shake the other man's hand.  There was no need to, since neither man respected his contemporary.  "I suppose you would prefer something else?"

The recent arrival smiled evilly, reminding Quentin of a serpent preparing to strike.  "I've always been partial to "How to Win Friends and Influence people".  Or maybe "Atlas Shrugged."

"You're quite the humanitarian," remarked Quentin, affixing the man with a cold stare.  Being in the presence of the Wolfram and Hart senior partner mad his blood run cold.

"I'm just looking out for number one," his visitor admonished.  "But that's why we're both here now, isn't it." 

Quentin nodded his head slightly, gesturing for the lawyer to take a seat.  "We can skip the formalities, Wexler.  I don't like this any more than you do."

"Really, Quentin.  I'm rather enjoying myself.  It's not every day the head of the Watcher's council commits treason.  I feel like a child on Christmas morning."

"You enjoy consorting with the enemy, do you?"

The lawyer shook his head disapprovingly.  "We're not enemies, Quentin; In the end, we both want the same thing.  We've just approached it from different perspectives."

Quentin furrowed his brow, taking a drink of his single-malt scotch.  "You have a remarkable ability to boil down complex moral issues to the most basic elements.  But then, I guess having no soul gives you an advantage in that department."

"Morality is an archaic notion, Mr. Travers.  There is no right or wrong; no black or white.  There are just different shades of gray.  You may not want to admit it, but you've spent your entire life fighting a battle that was decided long ago.  You did your best, Quentin.  Now let it go.  There's no shame in admitting defeat."

Quentin hung his head dejectedly, as a man who had lost everything.  His entire life had lead him to this point.  To the inescapable conclusion of what he must now do.  He'd had misgivings for some time, had known that the tide of war had been shifting in the enemy's favor.  He had seen the signs, interpreted the portents, even as he fervently prayed the he was mistaken.  But it was to no avail;  the appearance of Glorificus had only been a harbinger of things to come.  The Slayer had succeeded in forestalling the coming war, but only for a short time.  Soon they would appear in droves, hundreds, if not thousands of the Fallen, hellishly twisted angelic beasts each fully an order of magnitude worse than the so-called Hellgod had been.  It was a war the Slayer could not, and would not, win.  With a heavy heart, Quentin reached slowly into his tweed coat, producing a small magnetic disk, the contents of which represented a thousand years of knowledge and history.  He handed the disk to Wexler, surrendering with it both the Watcher's Council and his eternal soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And so ends chapter 8.  Sorry for the long wait – I've had a lot going on the past couple of months.  As you may have noticed, still no big B/X heart-to-heart.  We'll address that next chapter (I hope).  As always, feedback is greatly appreciated, as is money.  Feel free to send me either.

Till next time.

Your humble author,

Rabid Squirrel


	9. They Kill Lawyers Don't They?

Author: Rabid Squirrel   
Title: "Murphy's Law"  
Disclaimer: If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction? Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.  
Summary: Bad guys, good guys, Armageddon. 'Nuff said.  
Spoilers: Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.   
Rating: R, for violence, occasional strong language, limited sexual content, cliché abuse, and character assassination.   
Dedication: To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS. BTW "Sam": If you want to personally insult me, you're welcome to do so: Just have the cojones to at least sign the review. For your information, my IQ tests well above 75; therefore, I do not fall into the idiot classification. Just thought you should know:)  
Feedback: Thanks to Lori, Bill, Jane, Ghostrider, Brandywine421, Zathraas, RobClark, eckles71, and all others for the positive feedback. I appreciate you guys sticking with the story, and I hope it lives up to your expectations. And Brandywine, you were right; lack of nicotine is the #1 cause of writers' block. Jerry Lewis, Phillip Morris and I are organizing a telethon as I write this. Smokers of the world unite!  
  
  
"Guns don't kill people; bullets kill people...but seldom the right ones" author unknown  
  
  
Chapter 9 - They Kill Lawyers...Don't They?  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
100 miles off the California Coast  
Monday, September 2  
2400 hrs  
  
CVN 74 had stood out to sea the previous night, accompanied by the usual complement of escorts - guided missile destroyers, cruisers, frigates, and the like. The ninety-seven thousand ton vessel and its attendants had quietly slipped out of port, cruising westward at just under 30 knots; plying the dark Pacific waters in an almost eerie silence. The warships themselves were darkened, their presence betrayed only by the revolutions of the ships' massive propellers, their passage through the water stirring up millions of tiny phytoplankton aft of the powerful flotilla, creating an oddly beautiful luminescent green trail in its wake. At departure + 2 hours, the USS John Stennis had heeled sharply to starboard, bearing north by northwest as the remainder of the carrier battle group maintained its original heading. The Jonnie Reb, as the Stennis was affectionately known to her crew (at least those hailing from south of the Mason-Dixon Line), continued on alone, with the exception of the single fast-attack submarine patrolling 38 nautical miles off her windward stern.   
  
The official press release regarding the carrier's mission had been purposefully vague, declaring only her intention to conduct work-ups for the deployment of the newest squadron of F/A-18E Super Hornets, the US Navy's most recent version of the agile carrier-borne fighter-bomber - or at least that's what the Navy had claimed. It was not the first time the government had lied to the American people, and it wouldn't be the last.  
  
Shortly after separating from her escorts, the nuclear-powered vessel assumed an oval-shaped patrol pattern, circling off the California coast like a vulture in some dark, featureless desert. As far as the majority of the nearly 6000 crewmembers aboard were concerned, this was just a routine shakedown cruise for their newest toys. There were a few on board, however, who knew differently. They knew they were about to embark on a course of action that had not been undertaken by a US naval warship in nearly 150 years. They were going to launch a military attack against the continental United States.  
  
Precisely at 0001 hrs, 2 September, 2002 Pacific time, the Stennis turned into the wind, putting a 15 knot breeze over its flight deck in order to commence air operations. Shortly thereafter, a lone F/A-18C leapt off the steel flight deck, propelled forward by twin turbofan engines and a nuclear-powered steam catapult. The CAG - Commander, Air Group in naval parlance - had drawn the mission himself, partly due to security precautions, but mostly out of concern for the mental well-being of the aviators under his command. He wasn't about to order some 25 year-old kid to bomb the good old US of A. That might just have a negative effect on morale.  
  
As he lifted off the carrier, the pilot accelerated his aircraft, pulling the hornet's nose up twenty degrees, utilizing the airplane's high thrust-to-weight ratio to quickly climb through ten thousand feet. The old man cherished moments like these, flying alone at night, only him, his "plastic bug", and a vast expanse of ocean with which to share his thoughts. It did wonders for his sanity; at the same time keeping him up to date on his flight quals, which itself was a prerequisite for his continued mental well being. If a man couldn't fly, he reckoned, he might as well be dead. Unfortunately for the seasoned aviator, the moment wasn't long to last, as the lights of the California coast too soon came into view on the clear summer night. He wondered fleetingly if this mission might someday make its way into a recruiting brochure: Join the Navy. See the world. Blow up Los Angeles. In retrospect, retirement didn't seem quite so bad a prospect.   
  
The CAG glanced down at his radar screen, wary of drifting into the path of some hapless 747 jockey; you could never be too careful around civilian pilots, after all. Taking care to avoid the nearby commercial air traffic routes, he flew his aircraft ever closer to the city of angels, unconsciously checking to make sure his payload was safed. For this mission, the Hornet carried only two weapons - 2 satellite-guided Joint Direct Attack Munitions, or JDAMS. The mission parameters called for the use of only one of the weapons; the other was solely for insurance. As far as the Navy was concerned, he wasn't carrying any weapons at all, only two practice munitions, similar in appearance and weight to the genuine article, but lacking the spectacular visual results. As his aircraft approached the Initial Point, the CAG activated the weapon, its guidance package going active immediately. The unit began receiving signals from the constellation of geosynchronous global positioning satellites orbiting the earth, locking on to no fewer than eight signals. Satisfied that it knew exactly where on the planet it was (and where it needed to go), the unit went green, giving the go-ahead to commence the attack run.   
  
The pilot verified his position, using both GPS and the aircraft's Inertial Navigation System. Satisfied that he too was in the right place, The CAG uttered a silent prayer to the Lord (for forgiveness, not luck), and "pickled" the weapon off, forever ensuring his place in infamy. He verified that the explosive squibs had indeed jettisoned the bomb free, assured himself that it was tracking properly, then peeled off, turning the jet back toward the coast, egressing the Los Angeles airspace at high subsonic speed.  
  
For its part, the bomb fell true. It accelerated downward at the speed of gravity, tiny actuators making minute adjustments to the guidance fins, maintaining the proper glide path, per instruction of the onboard computer. The time-to-impact decreased rapidly, the weapon descending on the unsuspecting populace below like a modern-day angel of death. Twenty...Nineteen...eighteen...  
  
The people in the high rise office below didn't know they were about to die. They were simply going about their usual routine, staying one step ahead of the competition. That they had fewer than 30 seconds to live did not cross their minds, though had they known, they wouldn't have been able to save themselves anyway. The time to impact diminished rapidly as the bomb approached its terminal velocity, creating a slight whistling noise as it plummeted through the polluted Los Angeles air, finally impacting on a ventilation shaft near the center of the building's roof. At first nothing happened...at least for about 1/100 of a second. Witnesses would later report seeing a blinding flash, followed soon thereafter by a deafening roar and a terrifying shower of glass and steel. Miraculously, outside of the casualties suffered inside the immediate structure, (which would ultimately number nearly 100 dead) only a dozen people were killed, just four of who would be considered "collateral damage". All in all, it was not a very strange way to start a war.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Restfield Cemetery, Sunnydale  
Monday, September 2  
0100 hrs  
  
Buffy Summers was tired. She had been so for a long time, though not in the physical sense of the word. Stalking through the seemingly endless rows of granite and marble headstones, Buffy felt as though the entire weight of the world rested upon her shoulders. She wasn't exactly a student of history, at least not the mainstream genre they attempted to teach in school, but she couldn't help but wonder if this was how the mythical Atlas had felt, bearing the world, literally, upon his shoulders. It wasn't the first time she had felt this way; as a matter of fact, it was almost a daily occurrence. But now it was different.   
  
On the surface, things had gotten better over the past few months. Willow was beginning to heal, both from her grief over the loss of Tara, and the fact that she had very nearly succeeded in ending the world. Will's relationship with Buffy and the others was still strained, to say the least, but that was something they could all deal with. It just took time. That was something they had plenty of at the present. As for Dawn and Buffy, well, they still fought, even more often than before if that was possible, but it wasn't out of anger or hatred; It was just your basic run-of-the-mill sibling rivalry. Nothing more. And Xander...well, that was something else, but even that situation wasn't exactly end-of-the-world dire, though it was becoming exceedingly uncomfortable. Even her financial situation had somehow been resolved, due in no small part to her mysterious benefactor. Try as she may, she hadn't managed to find out who was behind her newfound wealth. The bank had stonewalled her completely, hiding behind some alleged securities regulations. It didn't really bother her all that much, but still, it would be nice to know.  
  
No, the pressure she was feeling didn't stem from difficulties in her personal life. The genesis of her problems lie in her nocturnal alter-ego. Since her resurrection the previous year, Buffy had begun to notice certain changes within herself, aside from the obvious fact that Spike could once again hurt her. She was stronger now. She could feel it in every battle she fought: The way the victories seemed to come easier, they way her opponents' counterattacks lacked anything remotely resembling efficacy. She seldom broke a sweat, even when on the wrong side of 5 to 1 odds. And as great as that seemed on the surface, Buffy couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding about it all. If there was one thing she had learned on the Hellmouth, it was that everything came with a price.  
  
These awakened abilities had a purpose, Buffy admitted to herself, and she was fairly certain that it wasn't just to make her life easier. If she was stronger, faster, more prescient than before, then it was because she needed to be. And that meant something was coming. Something bad. It wasn't just her keen deductive reasoning that had lead her to this conclusion. Her dreams were telling her the same thing.   
  
Buffy hadn't experienced a prophetic dream since her untimely demise, at least, that is, until the past few days. It was like watching a rerun in her head - the same dream, the same visions, every night. In them she saw unspeakable acts of depravity, human suffering on so great a scale as to defy description. Buffy had dealt with impending apocalypse before; this was something more. Something infinitely worse. Somewhere inside her, Buffy knew the truth. She had been to Hell. Now Hell was coming to her.  
  
As disconcerting as that revelation was, Buffy did have one small consolation - she wasn't afraid of whatever was coming. If there was one benefit in coming back from the dead, it was that a lot of questions were answered, a lot of blanks filled in. Facing death was a lot easier when you knew what awaited you on the other side, unless of course you happened to be facing an eternity in somewhere other than an ethereal paradise. Buffy had no such worries. She'd been to heaven - or at least what she assumed to be heaven (it wasn't as if there was a sign that said Welcome to Heaven - We Hope You Have a Nice Stay) - and she had every intention of going back. Just not any time soon.  
  
In the meantime, Buffy had other matters to attend to. She turned her focus back to the matter at hand. Shifting into Slayer mode, she ventured deeper into the seemingly endless cemetery, her pace quickening as she reached out with her enhanced senses, searching among the memorials for her unusually elusive quarry. The endless sea of headstones in this particular cemetery did not make her mission any easier, nor did the similar number in the 11 other graveyards within the Sunnydale corporation limits. Buffy often wondered how many of the graves in Sunnydale actually contained bodies, though she had long since conceded that the truth would probably do very little to put her mind at ease. Some questions, she reckoned, just weren't meant to be answered.   
  
Picking up the faint trace of a distant vampire, Buffy instinctively slid her right hand inside her leather coat, unconsciously fingering the hilt of the samurai sword concealed within. The blade had been given to her by Giles on the occasion of her 21st birthday, and had quickly supplanted Mr. Pointy as her weapon of choice. Like its predecessor, this weapon had its own history, though the blood it had spilled had not been of the demon variety. Sixty years earlier, the magnificent double-edged blade had been carried by an officer in the Japanese army. The sword had served the officer well, though ultimately had proven no match for the .25 caliber Browning that had nearly cut him in half. Subsequently, the sword had been taken from its owner's dead hand by a young British lieutenant and future Watcher, [Sir] William Giles, who years later had passed it on to his son, Rupert. Lacking any children of his own (at least, given his misspent youth, any that he knew about), Rupert had in turn given it to his Slayer. It was only fitting, he had explained when presenting the weapon to Buffy, given that the word samurai translated literally as one who serves. If there was one thing Buffy did, it was serve. Exactly who or what she served was open to interpretation. Of course, she had no idea that question would soon be answered, along with a few others that hadn't even been asked.  
  
Buffy wasn't alone in the cemetery that night. She knew that somewhere in the vicinity of the cemetery, at least one of her two "canine" friends was shadowing her, picking off any stragglers that managed to elude the Slayer, enjoying a not-so-tasty treat in the process. She hadn't actually seen either of them, at least not with her eyes, but she could sense their distinct presence nearby, as she had patrolling every night since their unexpected arrival. Unfortunately, it wasn't the only thing she was sensing.   
  
Something else had recently taken up residence in Sunnydale, a sinister something, primeval in nature. Buffy could sense it, could taste it with every breath, the way it blanketed the entire town, choking the warm summer air. There was always a certain darkness about Sunnydale, a pervasive sense of gloom and despair that, though it occasionally wavered, never completely lifted. This was something else entirely. This wasn't just some residual Hellmouth mojo working its magic, it was infinitely worse. Of her would-be nemesis, Buffy was certain of only one thing: It was evil; pure, relentless, evil...and if history was any precedent, it didn't intend on leaving town anytime soon. The big evil, for some reason, had a nasty habit of sticking around in Sunnydale.  
  
Great, grumbled Buffy, unsheathing her sword, wishing desperately for something - anything - undead to kill. I can't even pay a man to stick around, but the evil, it just can't seem to get enough of Buffy. I must be defective. That's it...I'm Buffy, the chronically defective vampire slayer. I wonder if I came with a warrantee? She'd have to check with Giles on that. For damned sure somebody deserved a refund.  
  
Slowing her pace, she hefted the sword in her right hand, testing the blade's balance, giving it a few twirls for good measure. So preoccupied was the Slayer that she didn't notice the person whose head she nearly sliced off.  
  
"I'm guessing a simple hello is out of the question," moaned a familiar voice, drawing Buffy's attention away from her problems and to the figure slumped on the boulder below and to the left of her. A gangly human form lay sprawled out on its back, in obvious discomfort, arms and legs spread akimbo.  
  
It took Buffy a moment to recognize the person from that angle. "Xander?"  
  
"Alive and in the flesh," he winced through gritted teeth, "and if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to keep it that way."  
  
Buffy frowned at him, suspicious of her friend's unexpected appearance. "What are you doing here?" She asked.  
  
"Apparently my impersonation of a human shish kabob. Oh, and in case I forgot to mention it...Ouch! Damn, Buff - didn't anybody ever teach you not to play with sharp objects?"  
  
Buffy rolled her eyes. "I'm a Slayer. In case you haven't noticed, I only play with objects of the sharp variety," she deadpanned. "Besides, you should know better than to sneak up on me in a cemetery. That's a really good way to get yourself killed."  
  
"So I've noticed," conceded Xander, trying - and failing miserably - to casually upright himself.  
  
"Not that I mind - that much - but why exactly are you sneaking around in a cemetery in the middle of the night?" asked Buffy, reaching down to give Xander a hand off of the rock.  
  
"Not so much with the sneaking," Xander acknowledged, taking the proffered hand, awkwardly managing to right himself with the Slayer's assistance. "More like hanging out. And since when is it a crime to pay a visit to my favorite Slayer?"  
  
"Your favorite Slayer? Wow; I rank ahead of Faith. Color me impressed." The tone of her voice suggested otherwise.  
  
Xander grimaced at Buffy's response. "You know, I didn't exactly mean it like that."  
  
"Right." Buffy replied curtly. "I'm sure there was a compliment buried somewhere inside there."  
  
Xander could read the signs on the wall as well as the next guy, which in any case wasn't very well. "You're gonna have to help me out here, Buff. I'm not so good with the reading between the lines bit. Have I done something to offend you, hurt your feelings, or otherwise piss you off in the past couple of days that I'm not aware of?"  
  
"You're right," Buffy said acidly. "You're not very good at it."  
  
"Then help me out. Throw me a bone here, Buffy. Exactly what is it I've done to hurt you? Is it the whole thing with Willow?"  
  
"The whole thing with Willow? God, is that what it is to you? Just a thing?" If Xander could see in the dark, he might have been surprised at the expression on her face.  
  
"Well...yeah. I mean, It is - was - just a thing. As in something that happened between two consenting adults. And since when do I have to explain myself to you? Weren't you the one who told me your personal life was none of my business? C'mon Buff, you slept with Spike; let's get some perspective here."  
  
Buffy couldn't argue with logic, at least not this time. So she chose to ignore it. "Don't try to turn this around. It isn't about me, and it sure the hell isn't about Spike!"  
  
Xander knew better. "Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?"  
  
"God, Xander! Do you try to be this exasperating, or does it just come naturally?"  
  
Both, thought Xander, though he wisely kept that thought to himself. "I'm trying to find out what the hell's going on in your head." he pleaded, running a hand through his hair in abject frustration. He softened his voice a bit, taking a breath before continuing. "Buffy, please, talk to me. Tell me what's going on. Tell me I'm a hypocritical, self-righteous prick. Tell me to mind my own fucking business. Just tell me something."  
  
Buffy did just that. "All right. You're a hypocritical, self-righteous prick, and you should mind your own fucking business," she replied without missing a beat.  
  
Xander hadn't quite expected that, even if he had deserved it. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Yeah. Alright," he conceded, "Guilty as charged. But you know what they say about people who live in glass houses?"  
  
Buffy shrugged indifferently. "They shouldn't walk around in the nude?"   
  
"Ok, you are familiar with the concept of the rhetorical question? In polite circles, people don't answer the rhetorical question."   
  
"Sorry, I was absent the day they taught etiquette in school." Buffy said, her voice lacking anything remotely resembling conviction. "But, hey, look on the bright side: Maybe now you can actually grow a pair and accuse me of being a hypocrite instead of just insinuating it all the time."  
  
Xander took the insult to his manhood in stride. "Actually, I find it's much safer to be intentionally ambiguous when insulting members of the female sex. Even more so if they happen to be carrying objects of the pointy variety. But if it makes you feel any better, I can personally vouch for your hypocrisy."  
  
"And I can vouch for the fact that you're a complete asshole." Buffy replied evenly.  
  
"I can't deny that," Xander admitted graciously, "though I do exercise my God-given right to invoke the Y-chromosome defense. However, I believe we were discussing your less-than-positive attributes, not mine."  
  
"No, Xander. We weren't talking about me. You were talking about me. You seem to be doing a lot of that lately."  
  
Xander shrugged off the accusation. "What can I say, Buff, you 're a popular subject these days."  
  
Buffy felt her heart skip a beat as the implication of Xander's comment sunk in. What did he know? For that matter, what was there to know? There was only one way to find out. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.  
  
"Oh, nothin' much," Xander replied casually. "It's just that over the past couple of days I had remarkably similar conversations with both Dawn and Willow. Care to guess what the subject was?"  
  
Buffy suddenly found the sleeve of her jacket remarkably fascinating, conspicuously avoiding Xander's gaze as she contemplated her inexplicable reversal of fortune. So this is what the view was like from the other side, she lamented. No wonder Xander hated it so damn much.   
  
Her silence was not lost on Xander, who for once interpreted his friend's reaction correctly. "You're not even going to try and deny it, are you?"  
  
Buffy was slow to respond, leveling her gaze at Xander, her tremulous voice quietly confirming his suspicions. "Would you believe me if I did?"  
  
"At this point - probably not. But I still want to hear the truth from you. I think you owe me that much."   
  
Buffy shook her head resolutely. "That's not going to happen, Xander. Not in this lifetime."  
  
That eventuality wasn't exactly a revelation to Xander, but it didn't lessen the blow any. "Why?" He pleaded angrily with Buffy. "Is it that bad? Is it so hard to admit that you just might have feelings for me?"  
  
The question elicited a short, bitter laugh from Buffy. "Is it that bad?" She mused sarcastically. "Well, let's see. You accuse me of being a hypocrite. You avoid me like the plague, ostracizing me for sleeping with spike, all the while tacitly implying that I'm some kind of whore, and then to top it all off, you sleep with my best friend. Why don't you ask me again why I have a problem with this?"  
  
Realizing that he had effectively lost control of the conversation, Xander did they only thing he could think of - he opened his mouth and made things worse. "Now wait just a damn minute! I may have called you a hypocrite, but I never accused you of the other things.  
  
"Oh no, of course you didn't. Because that would have required that you actually talk to me. No," Buffy spat at him, "you didn't say those things, you just insinuated them.   
  
Xander stared at his friend in utter incredulity. "What the hell did you expect me to do? Congratulate you on the wonderful choices you made? Pat you on the back for living an exemplary life? I can't just pretend that nothing happened. You screwed up, Buffy. You had to know there would be consequences."  
  
"And you've taken great pains to remind me of that, haven't you?" she shot back at him. "God, Xander, all you do is attack. Do you get some perverse satisfaction out of seeing me in pain? Does it make you feel better to beat me down, to put me in my place?"  
  
Xander shook his head emphatically. "I'm not saying these things for my benefit, Buffy. I'm just trying to be honest with you." Something, he didn't add, that she had singularly failed to do.  
  
"So you're saying this for my benefit? Then by all means, don't hold back on my account. Is there anything else you'd like to say? Maybe you have an opinion on how I'm raising my sister, or perhaps you'd like to comment on my lack of anything resembling a real career. Hey, I know, maybe we can talk about my history of screwed up relationships? Whaddaya say, Xand? You game?"  
  
Xander was treading on thin ice, and he knew it. Backpedaling, he tried to head off the impending storm. "I came here to talk, Buffy. Not to fight."  
  
Buffy snorted derisively. "Then by all means, talk. Don't let my feelings get in the way. It's not like that ever stopped you before. Tell me what a bitch I'm being. Tell me what a whore I am for sleeping with Spike. Please, I really need to hear this."  
  
"Buffy, I don't..."  
  
"Don't what? Don't want to hurt me? Don't want to make me feel like shit? You could've fooled me, Xand, cause you've sure been doing a bang-up job the past couple of months."  
  
"I never meant to hurt you, Buffy. You know that was never my intention."  
  
"Then what is it, Xander? Why do you do it?" Pleaded Buffy, her accusing eyes now awash in tears. "Why can't you even stand to look at me? I thought you were my friend."  
  
For her part, Buffy was right. Xander couldn't bear to look her in the eyes, though not necessarily for the reasons she believed. He tentatively stepped toward his friend, stopping abruptly as she visibly recoiled from him. "Buffy, please. You have to believe me; I don't want things to be like this between us. I don't want to lose you. I don't want to lose us."  
  
"Then why? Why are you treating me like this? God Xander, don't you think I know what I did was wrong? I know that what I did hurt you. I know how you feel about vampires. You made your feelings on that matter abundantly clear when I was with Angel."  
  
Xander shook his head in disbelief. "If you think the problems between us have anything to do with jealousy, then you don't know me as half as well as you think you do."  
  
Buffy stood her ground, folding her arms defiantly in front of her. "I know what you're going to say, Xand, so don't bother. I've heard this story before."  
  
"You may have heard the story, Buff" corrected Xander, "but you missed the point entirely. You think I'm angry with you because you gave yourself to Spike. Well, hey - big shock - I am, and I won't even try to deny it. But there's a lot more to it than that. And the fact that you can't grasp that makes it all the worse."  
  
"You don't think I've considered that? Not a day goes by that I don't regret what I did, Xander. Not because of what it did to you and Wills, but what it did to me. I'm not proud of what happened, and if I could go back and change it, I would, but I'm sure-as-hell not going to apologize for it. You couldn't possibly understand what I was going through at the time, so don't you dare presume to judge me!"  
  
When it came to Buffy, Xander had never been one to back down, and he wasn't going to start now. "Of course we couldn't understand! You wouldn't talk to us, Buffy. You wouldn't tell us what was going on. We were your best friends, the people who loved you and knew you best, and instead of confiding in us you turned to a soulless demon with a persistent habit of trying to kill us all. You'll forgive me if I have a little trouble accepting that."  
  
"That's not fair," Buffy shot back. "I was trying to protect you!"  
  
"Protect us? Exactly how were you doing that? By lying to us? By screwing a monster behind our backs? If that's your idea of protection, Buffy, I think I'll pass."  
  
"Don't you dare try to put this all on me, Xander! Be honest - if I had come to you and told you the truth, how would you have taken it? Would you have understood? Would you have been the supportive friend? What would you have done?"  
  
"You know damn well what I would have done! I would have done your job. I would have staked the sonofabitch and been done with it!"  
  
"And you think that would have been the right thing to do? Just kill him? After everything he's done for me and Dawn?"  
  
Xander could not believe his ears. "You just don't get it, do you? You talk about him like he's a person, like he's one of us. Earth to Buffy: HE'S NOT HUMAN! HE HAS NO FUCKING SOUL! Why can't you get that through your thick skull?"  
  
"I'm well aware of what he is and what he's done, Xander. I'm also aware that he did a lot to help us, to help Dawn. That has to count for something."   
  
"Not in my book it doesn't. Spike didn't choose to help us out of the goodness of his unbeating heart. He had to pick a side, and he couldn't kill humans. You do the math. Do you believe even for a minute that he would have helped us if it weren't for that chip in his head?"  
  
"Maybe not. But that still doesn't give us the right to kill him."  
  
"And the fact that he tried to rape you doesn't matter?"  
  
Buffy stared in utter shock at her friend, the betrayal evident on her face. "How...could you....say that," she whispered haltingly, the pain in her voice coming through much louder than her words could. "Of course it matters," she hissed, her voice growing steadier with every word. "Don't you think I remember every single moment like it happened yesterday? Do you want to hear how every night when I close my eyes, I can still see him on top of me, feeling his hands all over me? How...how could you possibly think that it doesn't matter?"  
  
It hurt Xander to do this to Buffy, to dredge up these memories, but he'd come this far, and he couldn't turn back now. It was too late for that. He steeled himself and continued. "Then why? Why are you trying to protect him after what he did?"  
  
"Because," she said faintly, barely loud enough to be heard. "It wasn't the man, it was the demon. He deserves a chance to make things right."  
  
"He tried to rape you." Xander repeated again, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice.  
  
Buffy peered intently at Xander, tired green eyes meeting defiant brown ones. "He's not the only one." She reminded him softly.  
  
Her allegation took Xander by surprise. "What are you..." He started, even as the memories came flooding back to him. He'd managed to suppress it for so long, he'd almost succeeded in forgetting completely. Almost. Xander quickly averted his gaze, desperately wishing he somewhere - anywhere - else.  
  
"You knew." Buffy whispered as the realization dawned on her. "All this time... you never said anything."  
  
Xander turned away instinctively, partly because he couldn't bear the way Buffy was looking at him, partly to hide the tears of shame that were now forming in his eyes as well. "I didn't...." he stammered haltingly. "I couldn't..."  
  
"You couldn't what? Buffy asked quietly, consciously checking her emotions. "Couldn't stand the shame? Couldn't bear to look at me, knowing what you did...what you tried to do?" She reached out to him slowly, hesitantly placing her hand gently on his back. "Xander, please, look at me."  
  
He wavered for a moment, then slowly acquiesced, turning toward her, his eyes closed, yet unable to meet her gaze. Xander's pulse quickened as a small, deceptively delicate hand reached up, cupping his chin, raising his head slowly. It seemed an eternity before he found the strength to will his eyes to open. When he finally did so, he found himself staring into unnaturally green, incomprehensibly understanding eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Buffy stopped him, placing a gentle finger to his lips. "It's OK. You don't need to say anything," she assured him. "I understand. More than you could ever know, I understand."   
  
He looked at her for a long moment, taking the opportunity to compose himself. It was true that he wore his emotions on his sleeve, but still, some habits died hard; after all, real men don't cry. Xander opened his mouth deliberately, struggling to find the right words. "I-uh, I managed to forget for so long. I guess...I guess somehow I convinced myself that it never really happened."  
  
"Understand this, Xander. I never forgave you for what you did - not because I still blame you or hold you responsible - but because you were never to blame in the first place. You didn't try to rape me; it was the demon, the animal inside of you. What you don't understand - what you have to understand - is that it wasn't any different with Spike. What he did was wrong, but it wasn't his fault. Just like it wasn't yours."  
  
Buffy held Xander's gaze, refusing to let him pull away. She drew her hand hesitantly across his unshaven cheek, lightly tracing a line down his rugged jaw line. Her breath hitched in her throat as she slowly tilted her head upwards, bringing her mouth agonizingly close to his. Buffy could hear him breathing, could feel his warm breath on her face. For one glorious moment, time ceased to exist, the whole of the known universe compressing until there were but two people left in all of the world, two people standing together in a dark cemetery, on the brink of something wonderful. Buffy felt herself drawn imperceptibly towards Xander, leaning ever closer as her eyes closed of their own volition. She felt her lips brush lightly against his, reveling in the sensation...  
  
And then it happened.  
  
For the first time in his life - prior magically inspired events notwithstanding - Xander Harris did the unthinkable: He rejected Buffy Summers. Without hesitation, and with minimal remorse, Xander broke the tender embrace, pulling back from one very confused, one very upset Slayer.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
That same time  
A darkened street  
Sunnydale California  
  
The two men waited in silence, concealed behind the Town Car's darkly tinted windows, watching as a lone, middle aged man exited a red BMW convertible, tightly clutching a tattered briefcase as he hurried up the sidewalk to the entrance of his flat. The man fumbled with the door lock, nervously dropping his keys twice in the process, before finally gaining entrance to his home.   
  
His clumsiness did not go unnoticed by the two inside the car, though it did not compel them to act any sooner than their mission parameters dictated. Patience, after all, was a virtue, one which the man sitting behind the steering wheel had acquired years before as a 2nd Directorate man at Moscow Centre. And though it seemed a lifetime ago, he still retained the formidable skills he had honed as a counterintelligence officer at #2 Dzerzhinskiy Square, the headquarters for the former Committee for State Security. At least, that's what he was counting on. The coming days would either bear him out, or would be his last.  
  
He glanced briefly at the small photograph taped to the console, then turned to his "colleague" and nodded slightly, confirming for both the target's identity. It was time.  
  
The man sitting next to him reached a gloved hand into the metal attaché case balanced on his lap, grasping the small, finely machined aluminum cylinder nestled snugly in the foam interior. He removed it from the case, expertly lining up the threaded end with the barrel of the 9mm Beretta he held in his right hand. Once the suppressor was properly attached, the man reached again into the case, removed a pre-loaded ammunition clip and inserted it into the firearm, working the action to ensure a round was chambered. The man thumbed the safety, ensuring it was in the "off" position, then turned and handed the weapon butt first to the man occupying the driver's seat, who accepted it without comment. He proceeded to reach into his overcoat, producing a similarly outfitted weapon from a loop concealed within.  
  
The passenger was a man not unaccustomed to murder. Mr. Kovacs, as he was currently known to his associates, had spent a number of years in the service of the Dirzhavna Sugurnost, the now defunct Bulgarian equivalent of the Soviet-era Committee for State Security, the KGB. And while it was true that the KGB had not really been in the business of killing people (unless of course, you were talking about Soviet citizens), the Bulgarian intelligence service had no such qualms. When it became necessary to eliminate a foreign national, the "Sword and the Shield" of the Soviet Communist Party invariably turned to intermediaries, contracting the work out to the various intelligence apparatuses of vassal nations, usually the Bulgarian DS. For that reason, he had the blood of fully a dozen men and women on his hands, two of them citizens of the country in which he now plied his trade.  
  
Nodding to his counterpart, Kovacs turned, reaching for the car door. If all went well, in fifteen minutes Rupert Giles would be dead and he would be back in his room at the Holiday Inn, enjoying a bottle of Starka, his vodka of choice. Unfortunately for Mr. Kovacs, he would never get that opportunity. As he moved to open his door, the man sitting opposite him leveled his pistol, firing two rounds into the Bulgar's back, perforating both his left ventricle and lung. Kovacs' body jerked once, then slumped limply against the door, a look of sheer astonishment forever preserved on his face.  
  
Placing both weapons in the attaché case, the man in the driver's seat turned the key in the ignition, started the Town Car, and - squealing the tires - raced off into the night, insulated from the nuisance of the Sunnydale Police Department by the diplomatic tags adorning the license plate. As he glanced disdainfully over at the mortal remains of the former Mr. Kovacs, he had but one thought. Score one for the good guys.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The Same Time  
Inside Rupert Giles' House  
  
  
Rupert Giles was not a man routinely given to overt displays of emotion, save for the occasional paroxysm of rage inspired by his thankless role as Watcher. There were, however, those occasions on which he was willing to set aside his professional stoicism in favor of a more animated response. By his calculation, this qualified as one of those occasions.  
  
The initial telephone call had come as a bit of a shock. Over the years, Giles had cultivated a number of useful contacts, many of them during his time at Oxford, where he had been known for his unruly disposition both on and off the Rugby field. It was there that he had first crossed paths with a like-minded individual, an Italian-bred troublemaker by the name of Arturo Pantonini. The two had instantly hit it off, and while Arturo hadn't shown any genuine interest in the occult as Ethan and the others had, they still managed to raise a little hell together in the local pubs.   
  
The years had passed by quickly, and in the time since both had graduated university, they had largely lost contact, though the occasional letter had been exchanged. Giles had found it difficult to believe that Arturo had actually attended - much less graduated - law school, and had gone to work for the Catholic Church as a Vatican Legal Counsel. If there was such a thing as karmic justice, Giles reckoned, this was surely it.   
  
But the career path Arturo had chosen hadn't been the most shocking revelation from his old friend. Arturo had phoned the previous night, requesting an urgent meeting with his old friend. He had hung up before Giles could press him for details, but the tone of the man's voice had hinted at the import of the call. In all of his life, Giles had never known a more even-tempered person - with the possible exception of one Daniel Osborne - than his old friend. However, on the previous night, the poor telephone connection had succeeded in effectively conveying both Arturo's excitement and his fear, if not his actual words. Needless to say, Rupert had shown at the designated meeting place precisely on the stroke of midnight, the pre-arranged meet time. To Giles' surprise, Arturo had not shown, though he had left Rupert a little something to remember him by.  
  
It had been some time since Giles had set foot in any house of worship, let alone a Catholic Church. Raised an Anglican, an "independent" by choice, Giles had precious little use for organized religion. It wasn't that the concept of God was anathema to his belief system; indeed, Giles had more crosses in his house than could be found in most any church. It was just that he found better uses for them than as wall ornaments. In spite of this, as the carillon struck midnight, Giles had found himself sitting in a wooden pew, anxiously awaiting the arrival of his friend. When thirty minutes had passed with no sign of his friend, Giles assumed the man would not show, and had decided to leave. He almost didn't see the package Arturo had left him.   
  
As Giles had made his exit, a shimmer of light caught his attention. Tracing it to its source, Giles found a thick manila envelope perched atop a rickety wooden stand. A flattened nickel lie atop the package, its highly polished surface reflecting the candlelight from the church nave. Smiling despite himself, Giles took the oblong coin in his hand, recognizing his old chum's calling card. He peered around cautiously, ensuring he was alone in the church, then surreptitiously tucked the envelope into his tweed sport coat and quickly proceeded to make his way out of the church.  
  
Back inside the safety of his car, Giles had eagerly ripped open the envelope, spilling out its contents. A small piece of stationary, along with a well worn leather-bound volume, dropped onto the passenger seat. He picked up the sheet of paper, instantly recognizing the author's flowing script. It read simply:  
  
R,  
  
My sincerest apologies for the exaggerated cloak-and-dagger routine; unfortunately, such precautions are now the order of the day. There are things you need to know, things you must understand, if you are to survive what is coming. Foremost among these, you should know that the Council has been compromised, and that your life is in grave danger. As I write this letter, the enemy's agents are among us, working to neutralize those who would stand against them. For your own good, you must trust no one.  
  
Do you hear that sound, Rupert? It's the sound of the clock ticking. Time is running short, and unless we can stop what is coming, it will run out for all time. A word of advice: Remember your theology, old man; it will serve you well in the days to come.   
  
We are at war, my friend. Make no mistake. The enemy has the upper hand, but we have struck the first blow. Know that you are not alone in this battle. There are others...some you know, some you do not. When the time is right, they will make themselves known to you.  
  
Unfortunately, I do not have the time to tell you everything you need to know. Many of the answers you seek can be found within the gift that I leave you now; others can only be found within yourselves. I must leave you now, as there is much yet to be done.   
  
Be well Rupert Giles. May God be with you and yours in the days ahead.   
  
Until again our paths cross,  
  
Arturo   
  
  
If Giles hands were shaking as he read the note, they were absolutely trembling as he took in the title of the tome resting on the leather bucket seat. Visibly perspiring, he started the car and tore out of the church parking lot, pushing the German engine to the limits of its capabilities.  
  
He sped recklessly through the streets of Sunnydale, his mind racing, trying in vain to contemplate the significance of Arturo's words. Remember your theology, he had written. What did that mean? Giles asked himself. Was it a vague warning about some impending evil, or a reference to some specific religious prophecy. He suspected, not incorrectly, that the answer would be found in the pages of the book he now clutched tightly in his hand.  
  
Downshifting, he swerved onto his street, pulling expertly into an open spot out front of his flat. He engaged the parking brake, shut off the engine, and hurriedly shoved the book and letter into his tattered old briefcase. He climbed out, pausing just long enough to engage the remote locks, then trotted up the sidewalk to the front door, where, in his excitement, he managed to drop the keys twice before unlocking the door. He finally gained entrance, never having taken notice of the Lincoln parked nearby.  
  
Once inside, he shed his jacket, not bothering to hang it up. He strode over to the well-worn couch, a veteran of too many late-night Scooby sessions, and plopped down unceremoniously. He placed the book gently on the coffee table, finding his eyes drawn once more to the raised letters gracing its cover. Panopticon. The word was Greek in origin, though the alleged author was not.   
  
Giles had studied a great deal of both history and mythology during his tenure at Oxford and ensuing postgraduate studies at the Watcher's Academy. In his line of work, there was really no distinction made between the two. During the course of those studies, there had been the recurring mention of a quasi-religious prophetical text, reputed to have been written by an agent of God himself. Of course, these claims, like many others, had always been taken with a grain of salt. Vampires were one thing. Angels were something else entirely.  
  
And now here Giles sat, the object of legend in his possession, a work reputed to contain first hand accounts of the history (and future?) of both the mortal and ethereal worlds. To say he was overwhelmed would be an understatement of cosmic proportions. Should he open it? Talk about the million dollar question. Giles glanced at the clock, noting the time was now past one o'clock. Deciding the matter could wait until morning - a more civilized hour of morning, that is - he picked up the remote control, intending to catch an hour or so of BBC news (thank God for satellites) to help clear his mind. There was no way he would be sleeping anytime soon. He clicked on the ancient television, impatiently waiting as the picture came into focus. As it did, Giles was taken aback by what he saw.  
  
It might have been a picture from WWII, were it not for the multitude of helicopters, both military and civilian, hovering overhead. Even with the sound muted, Giles could discern that the rubble he was seeing had once been a high-rise office building. Intrigued, he turned up the volume, just in time to hear the voice-over.  
  
"Tonight, Los Angeles has joined an international brotherhood, one whose soul criteria for membership is to fall victim to terrorist attack. At approximately 12:21 Pacific Time, the building housing the Los Angeles offices of the law firm Wolfram & Hart was torn asunder by a powerful blast. Authorities on the scene have declined to speculate on the cause of the explosion, though they have ruled out any accidental causes."  
  
Ashen faced, Giles hit the mute button on the remote. Wolfram & Hart. He had heard that name before. But where? Though he was both mentally and physically exhausted, the answer came quickly enough...Angel. They were the ones giving Angel and his crew such a hard time. But Angel and the others would never have done something so callous, so indiscriminate. This was a calculated act, an act of outright war. Arturo's written warning suddenly came back to him "But we have struck the first blow." Giles felt the sudden need for a good, stiff drink. Several of them, in fact.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
That's all for now. Sorry for the long wait. I swear, writer's block is a more insidious disease than syphilis...uh, I mean somebody told me that. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this latest installment. As always, feedback is much appreciated and desperately craved, though personal insults will be dealt with accordingly (you know who you are you little punk-ass bitch).  
  
Till next time,  
  
Rabid Squirrel 


	10. Confessions of an Unrepentant Existentia...

_Author:_  Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_:   "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaimer:_  If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction?  Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_  Bad guys, good guys, Armageddon.  Get the picture?

_Spoilers:_  Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.  

_Rating:   _R, for violence, occasional strong language, limited sexual content, cliché abuse, and character assassination. 

_Dedication_:  To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.  

_Feedback:_   Thanks to Lori, Bill, Calen, Jane, Ghostrider, Brandywine421, Zathraas, RobClark, eckles71, and all others for their feedback.  To any reviewers I've failed to acknowledge, _spasiba_!.  And to the anonymous spammer who thought this story was simply "yuuuuck" (posted about a million times, much in the fashion of a twelve year old with too much time on his/her hands), the fanfiction Gestapo is on its way, so you can expect a knock on your parent's door shortly.  Please, please try to resist arrest.  I'm begging you.  You'd be doing the gene pool a favor.

_Note_:  Many of you have commented on the B/X confrontation in chapter 9, either in your reviews or via e-mail.    The reaction to that part was about evenly split, half favorable, half not, though the majority of you argued that Buffy's position was wholly untenable, given Spike's attempted rape.  I would like to make it clear that the BTVS characters I write are an amalgamation of how the characters are explicitly portrayed on the show, and how I perceive them to be in my own little warped universe.  Buffy has taken an unapologetic stance on the show vis-à-vis her "relationship" with Spike, ergo she remains unapologetic (and slightly bitchy, though still adorable) in my universe.  It doesn't mean that I think she's right, I'm just trying to write her character as realistically and as faithfully as I can.  In short, don't kill the messenger…unless he's a Frenchman.  Then it's okay.

Now, without further ado….

Chapter 10:  Confessions of an Unrepentant Existentialist 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Restfield Cemetery**

**Monday, September 2nd**

**0100 hrs**

Buffy stumbled backwards, reeling involuntarily from the force of the unexpected blow.  She felt as though she were suffocating, her ragged breath coming in short gasps as her hands sought purchase on the smooth granite of the monument at her back, just barely managing to keep herself from falling.  She shook her head defiantly, as though denying what had happened would make any real difference, would make the reality of her situation any less absolute.  With a single word, the demons she had fought for so long to suppress had been unleashed.  In an instant, seven years of doubt and self-loathing came flooding back in a torrent of emotion, the mounting sense of hopelessness threatening to consume her.  Buffy opened her mouth, wanting – needing – to say something, if only to convince Xander he was wrong, but she couldn't find the words.  Somewhere deep inside, she'd always suspected it, from the moment Merrick had approached her that day in Los Angeles, to the day that Angel finally had left her.  And now, now that Xander had utterly and completely rejected her, she knew it was irrevocably true.  Whistler had known, had tried to tell her, but she'd ignored him, not recognizing his warning for what it really was.  It was all true, she admitted as she turned away from Xander, away from what may be her chance at happiness.  She ran; fleeing from the hopelessness, from her loneliness and despair, running as fast as her legs would carry her, desperately clinging to the false hope that she could outrun her past, and maybe, if she ran far enough, her future.  

Xander let her go.  He had seen the shock and betrayal reflected in her troubled eyes, the tears spilling out as she struggled to understand what had happened, what she had done wrong.  Even so, he resisted the urge to reach out to her, to tell her he was sorry, that everything would be ok.  It would just be another lie, and there had been enough of those already.  Instead, he stood by and watched silently, unable to comfort her as she turned away from him.  Xander watched her leave, feeling the pangs of guilt gnaw at him, knowing intuitively how she felt, having once been there himself.  He didn't want to push her away, to deny them both the chance at something they had once only dreamed of, but he couldn't help himself.  He was an unwitting slave to the whims of his baser emotions, a spectator watching passively from the sidelines as the events of his life unfolded before him.  He wanted to be strong, for his own sake and for hers, but his strength had long since been subjugated to his pride.  In his heart, he knew why he had done it, knew why he had pushed her away.  In the final calculation, the "why" may not really matter, but in the here and now, he knew it was his pride that had betrayed him.  And the part of him he despised most would have it no other way.

He watched the Slayer disappear into the darkness, following her receding form as far as his limited night-vision allowed him.  When she had disappeared, he turned, and with a heavy heart, made his way back to his truck.  In the morning, there would be bridges to mend, explanations to be made, and uncertainties to face.  But for now, there was only a cold, empty bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

**A Desolate Stretch of Desert**

**100 miles East of Sunnydale**

**Monday, September 2nd**

**0550 hrs**

The sun-bleached sand extended as far as the eye could see, the magnificent vista broken sporadically by the occasional stand of cacti or incongruous rock outcropping.   Here the wind was a constant, its relentless assault forever reshaping the landscape, alternately creating and destroying, much as it had done for thousands of years.  There was a certain symmetry to it, the way the desert continually grew and evolved, seemingly independent of the sparse life that nevertheless seemed to thrive in the harsh environment.  Most importantly, there were no humans.

The corners of the man's cracked lips curled upward infinitesimally, the contours of his mouth twisting into what might pass as a smile as he took in his surroundings.  The dearth of human life here appealed greatly to him, which would come as no great surprise to those who knew him.  But then again, that's what it was all about – the humans.

He crouched down low to the ground, the tail of his stark white cloak brushing the cool sand, the garment remaining remarkably unsoiled.  He dipped his slender fingers into the drifting dune, scooping a generous amount of sand into his cupped hands, allowing the rough grains to slowly sift through his fingers.  He might have intended it as some metaphor for the passage of time, but metaphors were a decidedly human construct, and therefore lost on him.   Truth be known, he just liked the feel of the coarse sand grains on his skin. 

They amused him, the humans did.  They had their odd proclivities, their all-consuming fixation on material wealth, and worst of all, their pointless obsession with their own mortality.  It was ironic to an enlightened being such as he, that with a limited amount of time at their disposal, humans could invest so heavily in such trivial pursuits.   Rather than embrace the few short years they were afforded, they chose to enslave themselves to a concept they had ordained out of their own sense of self importance, forever searching for a means to extend their meaningless existence beyond its natural lifespan.  It was a paradox, really.  The thankless little monkeys sought to live for ever, but had never learned to fully exploit the limited time they had.  Very soon, of course, they would realize the error of their ways, but by then it would be too late.  And that was really just too bad, wasn't it?

He rubbed his hands together slowly, meticulously dusting off  the few remaining grains of sand clinging to his pasty white skin.  He trained his eyes to the west, scanning the distant horizon expectantly, peering into the lingering vestiges of darkness as the first rays of sunshine broke at his back.  He had no inclination to watch the otherwise spectacular desert sunrise; he'd seen millions of them in his lifetime, and they all seemed the same to him.  If he had his way, he'd never again see another, and neither would anybody else.

He remained frozen in position, waiting expectantly, his gaze fixated on the horizon as the last shadows of night dissipated from the desert floor.  It wouldn't be long now.  

As if on cue, a flight of small white birds appeared out of the Northwest, their flight path arcing downward gracefully, descending earthward until at last they alit on the sand immediately behind him.  The man smiled knowingly, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, the hair on his neck bristling in anticipation.  He tensed momentarily, waiting for the right moment.  As he sensed movement behind him, he twisted violently, dropping to his right knee as he pivoted left.  He brought his hands up instinctively, moving with blurring speed as he trapped his would-be assailant's striking fist between his extended hands, stopping the potentially fatal blow in mid-strike.  Still smiling, he raised his head slowly, until his eyes fell upon the countenance of  one he knew well.  He rose steadily to his full height, still clasping the other man's hand tightly in his own.  The newcomer did not smile; nor did he shrink from the other man's piercing gaze.  He appraised his counterpart with a disapproving eye, his own black overcoat billowing behind him in the cool early morning breeze.  He addressed the other man, speaking softly, his voice tinged with a wariness borne of a lifetime of experience.

"Hello brother."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

**Waterfront Warehouse**

**Foreign Trade Zone**

**Los Angeles, CA**

**Monday, September 2nd**

**0600 hrs**

As any strategist worth his weight knows, the success of a military operation, whether tactical or strategic in nature, depends heavily on the concept of operational security.  In theory, the idea is quite simple:  The secrecy of any operation is inversely related to the number of people who know about it.  The more people privy to advance knowledge of an operation, the more difficult operational security is to maintain.  Not surprisingly, the senior partners at Wolfram & Hart knew a thing or two about operational security.  They knew even more about comprising it.

For that reason, the bombing in Los Angeles had come as no great surprise, though the severity and visibility of the operation had been anticipated.  And while the firm had sustained over one hundred casualties in the attack, the losses had been largely superficial, more an irritation than anything else.  The Senior Partners had not been present when the bomb impacted, and their security apparatus, though bloodied, had survived largely intact, less a dozen or so operatives.  

In response to the attack, or possibly in spite of it, a quorum of the Senior Partners had called the meeting, summoning their colleagues to the nondescript warehouse situated near the Port of Los Angeles.  The drab metal facility was ostensibly owned by TransAmerica Ltd., a holding company that was itself a subsidiary of Wolfram & Hart LLP, though any law enforcement agency would be hard pressed to uncover that fact, let alone prove it in a court of law.  

They had convened the summit in a spacious office situated in the loft of the building, having taken the usual precaution of deploying an advance security team prior to their arrival.  Security here was tight:  Every man, woman, and demon in attendance had been thoroughly searched, their person violated in a manner that would have made the most ardent airport screener blush.  However, modesty was not an issue here; nor was civility.  It was, all other appearances to the contrary, business as usual.   

From his seat at the head of the table, Albert Wexler surveyed the motley group, making eye contact with each in turn.   The major operational departments were all represented:  North America, Europe, Russia-Trans Caucasus, Asia-Pacifica, , Meso-America (including South America), Africa-Middle East, and the Near East.  The heads of the functional areas were in attendance as well, including the Executive Directors of Internal Security, Trends and Intentions, Technology & Religious Artifacts , Para-Natural Sciences, and Contract Resolution.  For practical reasons, there were no Assistant Directors or mid-level executives in attendance, though oddly enough, there were two outsiders among their number.  From the look of things, neither was particularly happy to be there.

Quentin Travers was one of those outsiders, though by chance he knew most of the assembled group by sight.  The Watcher's Council Intelligence Directorate – referred to by insiders as  "Solomon" –  had been remarkably accommodating in that regard.  Travers did not know the other individual seated at the table, though by the deference the others were showing him, Travers reasonably assumed the man was a major player in the current initiative.  He was not far off.

The man in question also recognized the others at the table, including the Executive Director of the Watcher's Council, though, unlike Travers, he needed no intelligence service to tell him who they were.  The being's name was Sammael, and he –  like Travers – was noticeably uncomfortable being in such company, though his reasons were entirely his own.  Despite his apparent unease, he sat patiently, waiting as the man they called Wexler brought the meeting to order.

"As you all know, approximately six hours ago our enemies launched a pre-emptive strike against our Los Angeles facilities," Wexler stated calmly, as though discussing something as mundane as the weather.   "The attack, though regrettable, was to be expected.  It is inconsequential, an inconvenience to be sure, but nothing more than that.  It in no way compromises the integrity of our current operations."

"Who was it," asked the Security Director, looking to the his counterpart in T&I, the man in charge of reading the tea-leaves at Wolfram & Hart.  His colleague folded his hands, leaning forward to address the others.  

"Our people have not had adequate time to assess that issue," he temporized, not exactly skirting the question.  "Though I can tell you that it was an airborne attack, most likely by American naval assets based in San Diego." 

"The Navy?  Why not the Air Force?  Don't they have aircraft here in L.A?"  The Central American director had never been known for his astute observations, which was probably why he'd been given the decidedly un-prestigious posting in Sao-Paolo.  Nepotism only took one so far, even at Wolfram & Hart.

 "Plausible deniability," T&I explained curtly.  "Edwards is too visible.  They put an aircraft in the air shortly before an explosion, and people might start to ask questions.  No, they would have launched the attack from a carrier positioned beyond visual range of the coast.  Fewer witnesses that way."

"And you're sure of this?"  The question came from the head of Internal Security .

T&I nodded.  "It's not how I would have done it, but yes, I'm sure"  

"Very well," interjected Wexler, effectively settling the issue.  "I think we can all agree on the who and why.  The question we must ask ourselves is what now?"

North America took his cue.  "Sir, the authorities are calling it a terrorist attack, which means it falls under the jurisdiction of the F.B.I."  

"Will they be a problem?" Internal Security didn't think so, but it was best to cover one's ass.  He hadn't made it this far in life by taking unnecessary risks.

"Ordinarily I would say no," NA offered.  "We have the American federal law enforcement and intelligence agencies thoroughly penetrated, and we effectively call the shots at State.   The new administration, however, has proven a bit more problematic.. The wildcard, of course, is POTUS.  

"Your predecessor said the same thing about the former administration," Technology reminded him.

"That is true," NA conceded.  "Though unlike the current Commander In Chief, Mr. Clinton possessed a certain moral ambivalence that lent itself more readily to our way of thinking."

"Are you saying that this man cannot be co-opted?" asked Paranormal Sciences incredulously.

"I'm saying exactly that."

The security chief snorted derisively.  "Then remove him  We control Treasury, do we not?  Put one of our men on his security detail and give him a proper Texas send-off."   The security head fancied himself quite the comedian.  He was alone in that regard.

"In case you haven't been watching the news, my friend, our man was recently forced out." T&I reminded him.  "His departure was no coincidence."

The Russian- sector Director asked the logical question.  "Then the situation in LA……?"  

"Does not work in our favor.  The FBI will ostensibly have the lead in the investigation, but they will be under enormous pressure to "accept" any and all assistance the military feels compelled to render.  In essence, Northern Command will be calling the shots."

"What you're saying then," Europe clarified, "is that marshal law will be effectively declared in the greater Los Angeles area."  He didn't need to explain further.  Sunnydale wasn't that far away.

"Your suspicions are correct, Jacques.   We will be forced to relocate our center of operations.  I trust we have made contingency plans for just such an occasion?"  Wexler raised an expectant eyebrow to his man in Contract Resolutions.

"It is true – we have anticipated just such an exigency.  As a precaution, I took the liberty of dispatching Lilah Fowler to the Hellmouth.  The project continues as before, with no significant impact to the timeline."

"And the opposition in Sunnydale?" asked Middle East.

"Our allies assure us that they will not be an issue.  Feel free to draw your own conclusions."

"I already have," Wexler informed Contract Resolution.  "What I see does not impress me." 

"Sir, if I may…"

"You may not," Wexler commanded, slamming an over-sized fist into the oak table.  "We have not come this far only to fail by underestimating the opposition.  I will not lightly suffer another fiasco like the one we endured with the Hellgod."

"With all due respect, sir, Glorificus was not directly under our purview…"

"Mr. D'onofrio," Wexler explained impatiently to the Director of Contract Resolution, a dangerous edge to his voice, "if I had held you responsible for that, you would have already been removed."  He paused a moment, letting his words sink in.  "The situation with Glorificus was an abhorrent failure of our policies, one which I have no intention of repeating.  I want the Slayer removed from the equation.  Permanently.  Have I made myself clear, _Mister_ D'onofrio?"

The man averted his gaze, nodding his understanding.  "Crystal, sir.  The assets are in place as we speak.  I will give the order today."

North America wasn't satisfied.  "What about her friends…the witch and the Watcher?"

Contracts also fielded that one.  "They will be dealt with, though in a more local manner," he assured his colleague, using the preferred euphemism for exsanguination, a common cause of death in Sunnydale.  The others nodded their approval.

"And the boy?" Europe prodded, eliciting a collective laugh from the group.

"Please," D'onofrio chuckled loudly.  "The gallant construction worker will probably break his neck tripping over his own feet."  He caught a warning glare from Wexler.  "Though in the interest of thoroughness, he will be eliminated as well."

"That still leaves the Watcher's Council," Asia pointed out.

For the first time that day, Albert Wexler smiled.  "Ladies and Gentlemen…and demons," he added graciously, acknowledging the pedigree of the Mideast Director.  "Allow me to introduce our guests:  Some of you undoubtedly recognize Quentin Travers."  He ignored the widespread murmuring that accompanied the introduction.  "Mr. Travers has been, shall we say, most accommodating in aiding our efforts.  Due in no small part to the information he's provided on Council Operations, we have been able to largely neutralize their offensive capabilities."  

The meaning of Wexler's last statement was not lost on Travers.  In the eyes of the world, he may be nothing more than a traitor, but underneath it all,  he still had a conscience, even if he had never found much use for it.  It troubled his soul, knowing that his legacy would be the death of men whom he had once called friend, the orphaning of their children, and the profound grief of their widows.   His only consolation was that his guilt would be short-lived.   Wolfram & Hart didn't exact the proverbial pound of flesh from its employees; It just claimed their souls.  As goes the soul…

As Travers pondered the consequences of his treachery, the animated debate continued around him.   "And what of the potential American and European military response,"  Asia persisted.

D'onofrio glanced furtively at his friend in T&I, seeking reassurance for his position.  "At this time, we, uh,  lack the necessary intelligence to predict their potential response with any degree of confidence."  He paused nervously, consciously aware of a dozen pairs of eyes on him, one of them belonging to a man who quite literally held the director's life in his hands.  He summoned his courage, continuing on:  "As you are all aware, we have experienced significant difficulty infiltrating the American Defense Department in recent years,  rendering our conventional intelligence methods ineffectual.  We have had limited success utilizing our "remote-viewing" assets, but on the whole our methods have been largely unsuccessful."

"How can this be?" demanded Russia.  "Our resources are second to none.  Do we not employ the finest seers in the world?"

"You speak the truth," admitted D'onofrio, "however, it appears our enemies have deployed countermeasures to limit our clairvoyants' efficacy."

"And what experience does the military establishment have with the paranormal sciences?" asked Europe, genuinely surprised.

"Very little of practical use.  However, both the American Central Intelligence Agency and former Soviet KGB have invested significant time and resources in developing their respective psychic capabilities.  We have also ascertained that the American military has been conducting research into the paranormal at the USAMRIID facility in Maryland, dating as far back as the late 1960's.  They've been at least partially successful at reaping the benefits, as evidenced by the outcome of Project 314.  These capabilities, coupled with the Coven's known Para-natural resources, present a formidable obstacle to our plans."

"Then how do we intend to counter them?"  the Security Director asked, not unreasonably.

Albert Wexler smiled for a record second time that day, his sanguine demeanor inspiring a collective shudder among his subordinates, who had wisely come to dread such overt displays of emotion.  "Where are my manners?" he chided himself.  "I haven't yet introduced our guest of honor…"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had the volume turned almost all the way up, making full use of each and every one of the stereo's 400 watts and eight speakers, probably violating the local noise ordinance, if there actually was one.  Xander wasn't sure, and he didn't particularly care at the moment.  

If he'd learned one overarching truth in his lifetime – other than the fact that women were now and would forever remain a complete and utter mystery to him – it was that it is scientifically possible to drown out your own thoughts.  He stumbled across that reality quite by accident, a by-product of years of attempting to drown out the sound of his parent's drunken brawls while barricading himself in his bedroom.   It was just a matter of decibels really, which he presently had an abundance of, thanks in no small part to the wonderful people at Bose™.   

Xander tapped the plastic toggle on the steering wheel, nudging the volume up yet another notch.  For some reason he identified with the song, though for the life of him he couldn't decide what it was about, regardless of what the title might suggest.  He reclined back in his leather seat, enjoying the warm night breeze through the open window as he sang along with the music, forgetting his troubles for the time being:

_ And I said…what are you looking at?  
He hit me across the face with a bat.  
I grabbed my .45 and I sad.. let's get out and go  
Well, so he opened the door, and said "now, whatcha here for?"  
I said I'm wanderin' down the road 44  
And I said… I've been walking for about a thousand years.  
And my feet are growing tired,  
My eyes a little wired,  
Don't know what to do unless I retire.  
And he just said let's play some crazy poker_

_  
And I said Johnny whatcha doing tonight?  
He looked at me with a face full of fright,   
And I said…how 'bout a revolution?  
And he said right._

_I said that was the craziest game of poker that I ever saw  
I said that was the craziest game of poker that I ever saw  
But I'm not gonna quit and I'm not gonna stop,   
I don't give a shit cause I got the drop.  
Johnny just got two eyes just like mine  
And I'm feeling kind of funky, kinda fine  
Cause I drank a bottle of whiskey 'fore I came  
Came to the bar to see what's the same  
I saw my man named Johnny sitting across the table from me.  
And to my left was a man, he had no gin.  
He didn't even think about startin' to sin  
The man to my right, wasn't feeling very nice;  
He looked kinda mad and I felt bad  
Because I took his money last night   
Now I'm just struggling.  
I need a honey bunny  
I don't know what to say anymore,  
So I'm just going to go out the front door._

As the song faded out, Xander felt the telltale vibration of his cell phone in his pocket.  Retrieving it with his right hand, he flipped open the tiny plastic unit, holding it to his ear as he hit the pause button for the CD player.

"Xander Harris."

"Xander, it's Harry…your landlord," revealed the voice on the other end, sounding rather embarrassed, if not slightly apologetic.

"Yeah Harry…what's up?"

"Look man, I hate to bother you at this hour, but I thought you should know that there's someone in your apartment.  I was gonna just call the police, but…well, I know how you and your friends sometimes keep strange hours, so…"

"It's alright, Harry.  Did you get a look at the person?"

There was a slight pause at the other and.  "…well, yeah I did.  Didn't recognize 'im though."

_Him?  That's a new one.  _"This guy didn't by any chance have bleached-blonde hair and really pale skin, did he?"  That was always a possibility, though not a welcome one.

Another pause.  "Uh…not sure about the hair.  The guy was wearin' a hat, but he did have pale skin.  Said he was a friend of yours."

"You talked to him?"

"Yeah, funny thing.  I saw him unlocking your door, so I confronted the guy, asked him what his business was.  He claimed to be an old friend of yours and said he needed to talk to you 'bout somethin' or other.  Had a funny accent…East coast I think, maybe New York or Boston.  Anyway, I suggested he call you, but he insisted on waiting, you know,  so I gave you a ring.  So what do you want me to do?  You want me to call the cops?  This guy gives me the serious wiggins."

_Shit.  _Xander momentarily considered calling the cops, then thought better of it.  "Don't worry about it, Harry.  I'll be there in five; I'll deal with him myself.  Thanks for the heads up."

"No problem, man.  Have a good one."

"You too, Harry.  Thanks,"  He thumbed the end button, wondering if this night could get any worse.   He made full use of the Dodge's V-8 as he sped through Sunnydale's back streets, proving his estimated ETE overly pessimistic as he arrived at the apartment complex inside of three minutes.  

He locked the vehicle, but not before retrieving his Colt .45 from the holster slung underneath the driver's seat.  _The Initiative hadn't been all bad, _Xander admitted in hindsight.  _They did leave me with some nice toys._  He chambered a round from the clip, carefully tucking the hand-cannon  into his waistband so as not to needlessly alarm any of his nocturnally-inclined neighbors.  Entering through the side entrance nearest his apartment, he immediately noticed two things:  1)  His front door was slightly ajar; and 2) The intruder was sitting in his living room watching SportsCenter, as evidenced by the overbearing voice of Chris Berman bestowing yet another nickname on some unwitting baseball player.

Xander slowly crept to the door, walking close to the wall to prevent the creaky floor from betraying his presence.  He drew the Colt, thumbing the safety to the off position as he pointed the firearm in front of him.  He quickly reached the door, counted silently to three, then threw the door open, stepping into the darkened apartment.

His eyes were initially drawn to the light from the flickering television, then quickly shifted to the figure seated on the couch.  As his eyes adjusted to the dark,  Xander reluctantly lowered the gun, cursing whatever God was out there for his misfortune.  He closed the door behind him, then reluctantly addressed his late-night visitor.

"Hello Whistler."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End Chapter 10.  

I'll be damned…it only took me two weeks to update this time.  A new Rabid Squirrel record!  Yay me.  Let's hope it doesn't' reflect in the quality of the content.  Anyway, as always, please let me know what you think.  I recently upgraded my membership and purchased the support services, so I now how many hits this story is getting, and how few reviews result from those hits.  So you – yes you –  the individual reading currently reading this:  Would it really kill you take a few minutes and drop me line.  A little constructive criticism?  Ideas for the story?  Arbitrary ranting and raving?  Whatever floats your boat.  I just need some feedback.  Must. Have. Feedback.  OK.  That's it…I've shot my load and I'm spent.

Look for a little Spike-inspired mayhem next chapter.  Also, more from Giles and some tough times ahead for our resident Slayer.  Oh, and a lot more violence.

Till next time,

Rabid Squirrel


	11. The History of Things to Come

_Author:_  Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_:   "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaimer:_  If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction?  Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_  Bad guys, good guys, Armageddon.  Get the picture?

_Spoilers:_  Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.  

_Rating:   _R, for violence, occasional strong language, limited sexual content, cliché abuse, and character assassination. 

_Dedication_:  To the men and women of the United States armed forces, and all those engaged in the struggle against tyranny and terrorism worldwide_:  _Kick a few, take a few, and come home safe.

_Feedback:_   Constructive criticism, advice, and words of encouragement are all accepted.  Flames will be turned back on their originator.  Kentucky fried crispy critter anyone?

_Note_ 1:   I'd like to take the opportunity here to individually address some of the feedback I've gotten from various readers…

_Lori B_:  First and foremost, thanks for the continued feedback and words of encouragement…I'm glad to see you're writing again.  As for the public nature of the strike against W&H, I can only say that there were compelling reasons for it, reasons I will address in upcoming chapters.

_Ghostrider_:  Thanks for the kind words, and yes, we will be seeing a lot more of Buffy in the coming chapters.  As for Whistler, he will do what needs to be done; nothing more, nothing less.  That's the nature of the beast.

_WBH21C_:  Wow!  That's quite an endorsement, especially the allusion to Clancy (who is light-years beyond anyone else, especially a first-time fanfic hack like myself).  I'll keep writing, you keep supplying the feedback.  Gracias.

_Calen_:  You do have it in for Buffy, don't you man?  I can't say that I blame you, though I'm a firm believer in redemption.  When all is said and done,  I believe that Xander still has feelings for Buffy.  As for Spike, he'll do what he was meant to do – wreak havoc and spill blood.  And yes, he'll probably give our resident Slayer some shit for getting turned down by X.  That's just Spike.

_Mad Minute:_  Glad to see you approve of my tactics.  After all, what's the point in having toys if you don't get to play with them?  As for where this story is going next, just like the AIM-9, it's going right up somebody's six… with a vengeance.  Oh, and  Matryoshka…I love it.  I'm not a big fan of the "bad-ass Xander" theme per say, (after all, it doesn't take courage to be Superman when you are Superman) but the story is first-rate none-the-less.  To anybody who enjoys "Murphy's Law", I highly recommend checking out Mad Minute's "Matryoshka".  It's definitely worth a read.

_RobClark_:  You're right…good catch; there hasn't been any prior interplay between Xander and Whistler in this story, though that's not to say that they haven't met prior to the beginning of the story.  More will be revealed in this chapter about a connection between the two.  

_BaileyTC_:  Thanks for giving the story a chance, even if you're not into conspiracies or military themes.  You'll be seeing a lot more of Danyael in the coming chapters, as a link between him and the Slayer is revealed.  You're right about the prophecy (isn't there always one…damn clichés).  And thanks for the compliment.  I really enjoy writing the Buffy and Xander characters, not in spite of their issues, but because of them.  It makes them more real.

WyseQuack:  I appreciate the words of encouragement.  I agree with you and Ghostrider about Buffy; I believe that her character does blame herself for the latter occurrences of season six, at least to a certain extent, and I will be delving into that even more as certain revelations are made concerning Buffy's resurrection.  Stay tuned. 

_Bolo_:  Truth be known, I like W/X too (also D/X),  just not as much as I enjoy B/X.  I hope you won't give up on the story, though I understand that it's hard to invest time in a fic when it doesn't adhere to your ship of choice.  At the very least, thanks for taking the time to share.

_RRahl_:  Finally, somebody heard my pleas.  Thanks for the compliment, and I'll try to keep the updates flowing.

_Steve:_  I'm not a big fan of Faith, though I think she did add a spark to the show.  People often make the argument that she's had a rough time, and was badly mistreated by the Scooby Gang.  The way I see it, she's both a traitor and a slut, which gives Buffy a slight edge on the Xander scorecard.  Let's face it, she wanted to jump Angel's bones just as much as Buffy, and slept with just about anything on two legs.  I would like to see her redeem herself, and word has it she will be coming back to BTVS at the end of the season.  I guess we'll have to wait and see.  Just for you, though, Faith will likely make a guest appearance sometime in this story, just don't ask me when.

__

_Note 2__:_  The lyrics from chapter 9 were from OAR's (Of a Revolution)  "That Was A Crazy game of Poker", from the album "The Wanderer".   If you get the chance, give them a listen sometime.

And now, in the words of the immortal Paul Harvey, "Back to our story…"

Chapter 11:  "The History of Things to Come" 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Xander's Apartment**

Early Monday Morning 

The balance demon raised the remote control, reluctantly muting the television as he turned to face the young man who's beer he'd been drinking for the past thirty minutes.  "Ya know kid, another five minutes, and I was gonna give up on you."  

_Damn –  always with the bad timing_.  "If you'd like, I could leave and come back later."  Despite Xander's reputation, the suggestion was not made entirely in jest.

"Glad to see you've still got that sense of humor, kid.  You're gonna need it."  

 Xander ignored the implicit warning, his thoughts turning to the firearm he still clutched in his right hand.  He allowed himself to fantasize, however briefly, about putting just one of the .45 caliber rounds between Whistler's eyes.  Unfortunately, that fantasy, like others before it, would not be acted on anytime soon.  

Xander walked further into the apartment, placing the firearm, sans clip, on the countertop, slowly making his way to the living room.  He flipped on the overhead light, glaring at the pale-skinned demon with obvious contempt.  "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

The demon smiled broadly, reminding Xander very much of a Cheshire cat.  "You know, that's what I like about you Harris.  You always get right to the point, never lose sight of what's important."

"What's important, Whistler,  is getting you out of my apartment, and out of my life, as quickly as possible.  Anything I can do to speed the process, I will."

Whistler arched an eyebrow, looking dubiously at the would-be hero.  "If I didn't know better, I'd say you didn't like me."  

Xander took a seat opposite him, already tiring of the conversation.  "You don't know better, Whistler.  That's what makes you so utterly reprehensible.  And  I've had a long day, so say your piece, then get the hell out."

Whistler took a long swig of his pilfered brew, draining the last of the stout from the can.  "Stow the hostility, kid.  We're all on the same side here."

Ever the cynic, Xander wasn't swayed.  "Last time I checked, Balance Demons weren't real big on taking sides."

Whistler shook his head, more amused than irritated.  "You never were one for doing your homework.  But I guess I should have expected that."

"Please tell me you're planning on getting to the point sometime soon?"  Xander begged.  Being in close proximity to Whistler always gave him a splitting headache.

"Patience is a virtue, kid.  You might wanna check into it sometime."

Xander's gaze wandered back to the countertop, and to the weapon lying on it.  "Sorry, Whistler – I'm fresh out, though by chance I do seem to have an abundance of .45 hollow-points…"

Whistler responded by choking on his beer, coughing up a stream of dark liquid in the process  "All right kid – I get the point," he sputtered, wiping the alcohol from his pants.   "And subtlety…definitely not your strong point.   But you're wrong about my kind not taking sides.  We _always_ take sides, just not always the one you happen to be on."

"And surprisingly, my opinion of you just keeps getting better and better."

"You don't have to like me, Harris.  You just have to accept that I'm doing what needs to be done."

"And what exactly is that?" Xander demanded.  "Balancing the forces of good and evil?  Take a good look around Whistler – how much balance do you see?  Cause from my vantage point, the scale's not exactly tipping in the right direction."

The demon was unfazed.  "That's why I'm here, and that's why you're here.  To tip the balance back in the other direction, until the equilibrium's restored."

"And what then?  What happens when the world tilts in favor of the right side?"

Whistler fell silent, contemplating how best to answer the question.  As always, directness was the preferred approach.  "You already know the answer to that."  

And he did.  Xander never entertained any misconceptions about what Whistler really was, but he had allowed himself to forget that there were two sides to the equation.  He knew there would come a point when Whistler would stand against them.  He just hoped, for his sake as well as Whistler's, that he wasn't there when it came to pass.  "Have you ever considered that maybe an equal balance isn't really the best way?"

Whistler smile to himself at the thought.  "I've been doing this since long before you were even an itch in your old man's pants, kid.  I've been there, and I once felt the way you do.  But with age comes wisdom – at least that's what they tell me – and you start to see things a little differently.  I've seen what happens when the power shifts too far to one side.  Even the good aren't infallible, kid.  Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.  If you remember one thing, remember that."

"Thanks for the philosophy lesson."  Xander remarked sarcastically.  "Need I remind you that we're sitting atop the Hellmouth?  C'mon, give me a break Whistler.  Most of the time, we're lucky if we can hold our own.  I don't think the big bad's in any dire need of affirmative action."

_You have no idea how right you are  kid.  _Whistler nodded his agreement, remembering exactly why he was in Sunnyhell in the first place.  "Which is why I'm here talking to you, and not out plotting the Slayer's demise."

"And you were about to tell me exactly why that is…?"  Xander's headache greatly outweighed his patience at this point.

Whistler leaned forward, examining Xander intently.  "Do you remember what I said to you when we first met?"

This time it was Xander who lapsed into silence, nodding his head absently as his thoughts wandering back to that regrettable day.  "There's one thing you never told me," he reminded the demon.

Whistler smiled mischievously.  "I thought you would have figured that out by now."

Xander hadn't.  "Why don't you humor me."

"All right kid.  You wanna know why I chose you?  It's simple, really.  I picked you because I knew that you wouldn't say no, not where the Slayer was concerned."

"You mean you used me."  

Whistler dismissed the accusation with a shake of the head.  "It's called free will, kid.  Nobody made you do anything.  You volunteered."  

A snort.  A curse.  A mumbled threat  "As if I really had a choice in the matter."

Whistler shrugged.  "What can I say?  Love makes you do the wacky.  In the end, it all works out for the best."

"And what makes you so sure I did this out of love?"  

"Well, I'd like to think you did it for more altruistic reasons, but I we both know better, don't we?"

"You might be surprised." 

Whistler wasn't about to fall for that one.  "Don't try to bullshit an old bullshitter, my friend.   When I came to you, when I warned you this day would come, you stepped up to the plate because you didn't trust anybody else to do it.  You can lie to your friends, you can lie to the Slayer, and maybe you can even lie to yourself, but at the end of the day, when all is said and done, I know why you did it.  And it's not such a bad thing."

"You were spying on me?" Xander asked incredulously, realizing he and Buffy hadn't been alone in the cemetery.

Whistler shrugged again.  "I lurk.  It's part of the job description.  Don't worry, you'll get used to it…eventually."

"And until then?"

Whistler smiled, pulling himself up off the leather couch and heading toward the door, pausing to grab his hat from the coat hook.  He looked back at Xander.  "Until then you keep your promise.  You keep an eye on her; you prepare her for what's to come." 

"And afterwards?"

The demon opened the door.  "That's up to you.  But remember this, all martyrs have one thing in common."  He looked soberly at Xander, giving him one last warning.  "It's not your battle kid, not anymore.  It's her time now; everything has lead to this point.  All you need to do is steer her in the right direction, so don't get any ideas about playing the hero.  Do us all a favor and have the White Knight sit this one out.  'Cause, unlike the Slayer, you only have one life to lose."  With that, the demon turned once again to leave, only to be stopped in mid-stride.

"Hey Whistler?"

He paused, halfway out the door.  "Yeah?"

"You know what you said about restoring the balance, about serving both sides?"

"Yeah.  I remember."

"If that day ever comes…"

Whistler turned back one more time, more convinced than ever that he'd made the right choice.  "Yeah, kid.  I know you will."  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The Desert**

**100 miles East of Sunnydale**

**Monday, September 2nd**

**0550 hrs**

The man in white stood opposite his counterpart, still firmly clasping the other man's hand in his own.  He wished he had the time to savor the moment, to bask in his estranged brother's anguish, and by default his own impending redemption, but with reality being what it was, time was a commodity in short supply these days.   He took one last look at the man before him, preserving the sight for posterity, and then reluctantly released his grip.  "That was quite the impressive entrance, Danyael.  So serene, so symbolic, so evocative.  It almost brought me to tears."

"It was probably just the dust in your eyes," Danyael assured him.  "Which would cease to be a problem if you pulled your head out of the sand every now and then."

"Well.  Well.  Well.  Look at little brother," the man admonished him.  "He's spent so much time with the little soul-monkeys he's started to speak like one of them."

"I see the years have managed to temper neither your jealousy nor your vanity," Danyael observed acidly.  "I guess it was naïve of me to hope that you would have used the time for a little personal introspection."

"Oh, but I have," his brother countered earnestly.  "I've spent eons doing nothing but."

"There's a distinct difference between reflecting and plotting, my brother, but then you've always confused the two, haven't you."

The man in white chuckled quietly, almost benignly.  "Still clinging to the old ways, Danyael?  You can't bring yourself to say my name, can you, even after all this time."

Danyael turned slightly, away from the other man, looking first toward, then past the ascending sun, as if searching for something obscured by the brilliance of the distant star.  "You know I can't," he half whispered, his voice straining to be heard above the sound of the shifting sands.  "Neither above, nor below, until the end of time…"

"Spoken so eloquently, Danyael.  But then, you always did have a way with words.  That's why he favored you so."

"And yet here I stand."  Danyael lamented wistfully.  

"Yes, here you stand," conceded the other man, "Not as a man, but an outcast, forsaken for all eternity, the bastard child of an uncaring father.  And still, you throw yourself at his feet in supplication, begging his forgiveness; all the while he sits there looking down on you in judgment, mocking you for your supposed sins.  You're his whipping boy, my brother, an enduring morality tale for the masses.  He abandoned you a long time ago.  He cast you down, banished you for all eternity, your name cursed as surely as mine, would that it were spoken in anything other than hushed whispers.  You and I are brothers, Danyael, born not of blood but of destiny, and yet you cling to the false hope of redemption.  Let me tell something, my friend:  Forgiveness is for the monkeys,  for those he loves best.  For you and I there is nothing, save the promise of spending eternity on the outside looking in, bearing witness as his ill-conceived experiments claim what is rightfully ours.  Our salvation lies down the same path, Danyael, and that is the path of righteousness.  You betrayed me once.  Join me now, brother.  Join me and save yourself."

Danyael waited patiently, allowing the other his say, though he had heard it all before.  He found himself laughing in spite of the situation.   "Ten thousand years, and you still haven't tired of listening to your own voice.  And they accused me of being self-absorbed."

His companion did not find the humor in his statement.  "Still the comedian, I see.  Do you really find your exile that appealing?"

"It beats the alternative," Danyael countered.  "Besides, it's not all bad.   You've got Buffalo wings, rugby, Rhythm and Blues, Major League Baseball, and the History Channel.  And you've never really lived till you've played 18 rounds at St. Andrews."

"You're not one of them," his brother reminded him harshly.  "You can surround yourself with their trappings, you can dress like them, speak like them, but you will never be one of them.  Because of what you are, they can never accept you."

"You underestimate them," chided Danyael.  "You always have."

"And you?  Where did this newfound respect for the little monkeys come from?  When the trumpets of war last sounded, did you rise to their defense?  Did you side with our master, flocking to his banner to defend his legacy?"

"I did not,"  Danyael conceded calmly.  "Neither did I join your little insurrection."

"You were a coward." 

"I was a conscientious objector to a war that should never have been.  A war that was forced upon me by one I called friend."

"You made your choice, Danyael.  You could have fought by his side, fought for them.  You chose to lay down your sword, to refuse to fight.  You alone are to blame for your damnation, not I."

"I've never blamed you for my own failings, brother; my sins were my own.  But I accepted responsibility for my actions a long time ago, and I am at peace with them."

"And yet you still harbor this hatred for me, still entertain the belief that I have somehow wronged you."

"It was by your hand that my fate was chosen.  You knew well that I could not take up arms against our master, and you knew equally well that I would not stand against you.  I chose the path of least resistance, and for that I have suffered.  But I do not hate you.  I feel only pity for you."

"So you have made your choice then?  You will stand with the humans?  You will stand against me, doing what you could not bring yourself to do so many years ago?"

Danyael shook his head solemnly.  "We are only at war if you decide that it should be so.  If you desire it, then yes, the second war will commence, and I will oppose you, whatever the cost."

"You cannot defeat me.  You will be destroyed, you and all who stand with you."  Of that he was certain.

"Whatever shall come to pass, so be it.  I am no warrior, brother, but neither am I coward.  If I should fall, there will be another to take my place."

His brother wagged a disparaging finger at him.  "You believe a mortal will succeed where you would fail?  I knew you were a bit obtuse, but I did not take you for a complete fool."

"I have no intention of failing.  Though should the situation arise, I have made alternate arrangements."  

The beginnings of a smile crept into the other man's features, his thin, taut lips pulling back to reveal a set of impossibly perfect teeth.  "Ahhh…yes.  The mongrel; I almost forgot about your little pet project.  How's that working out for you?"

Danyael looked at his brother evenly, his face betraying none of the anxiety he was feeling at the moment.  "How eager are you to find out?"

"You never were a good poker player, Danyael."

"And you, brother, are predictable as ever.  When the time comes, she will be ready for you."

"And what makes you think she has the luxury of time?"

"Because I know you, maybe better than you know yourself.  For all of your arrogance and hatred, you still have a sense of honor – a misplaced interpretation to be sure, but honor nonetheless.  You won't touch her until the hour is upon us, and we both know it."

"Perhaps," admitted the other man, "but there are others who would."

It was Danyael's turn to smile.  "I'm counting on that."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**1600 Pennsylvania Avenue**

**Situation Room**

The Texan looked over the page briefly, affixing his signature at the bottom with the engraved Mont Blanc pen.  He handed the sheet to the nearby aide, who nodded curtly, tucked the paper carefully into a labeled folder, and quickly left the room.

The document was officially classified as Presidential Determination No. 2202-30, though to the public at-large the document would be considered just another Presidential Finding, a convenient way to circumvent the laborious process of Congressional approval and Judicial Review.  The finding said that –  pursuant to law and in the interest of national security –  the Chief Executive Officer of the United States had pronounced that the Air Force's operating location at Groom Lake, Nevada was not bound by certain federal environmental regulations.   Simply put, it meant that the law said whatever the President understood it to say – in this case that the EPA had no jurisdiction over Groom Lake.

Such findings had been issued in the past; the previous administration had issued a similar executive order concerning Groom Lake only four years earlier.  This particular finding, however, was of far more strategic importance.  

It had been an accident, really.  The Department of Agriculture had been researching alternative forms of pest control, in this case employing intensive ultra-high frequency sound waves as a deterrent to crop-destroying insects.  The initial results had proved promising, and an innocuous memo had "inadvertently" made its way to Arlington, landing on the desk of the Deputy Director, Operations.  And the rest, as they say, is history.

"Dubya", as he was known to the wags and pundits, had been fully briefed on the project, and though he had a number of reservations about its possible effects on the human population, had signed off on its use.  These were, after all, unusual times.  Bleary-eyed, he looked over to the Three-Star seated directly across from him.  "General Hayden, what happened in Los Angeles?"

"Sir," the 33 year Air Force veteran and current NSA Director began, "Our SigInt assets intercepted a number of enemy communications, from which we were able to ascertain that their senior leadership was meeting in the Los Angeles area earlier this morning."

"But we didn't take them out," pointed out POTUS.

"That is correct, Mr. President.  As you know, ECHELON intercepts approximately 3 billion pieces of data daily.  Our data processing systems were able to fingerprint the relevant intel, but not in time to coordinate a precision strike.  Needless to say, we are currently in the process of upgrading our data-mining capabilities."

"Very well.  What now?"

"Mr. President," piped in a new voice, this one belonging to SecDef, "Project Screamer is now fully mission capable.  Limited testing will be conducted at Groom Lake to explore potential side effects, but we are satisfied with its results on the sub-terrestrial species."

"And what of the others…these "Fallen" ones?"

The balding Secretary shook his head.  "We haven't encountered any as of yet, though we do have confirmation of their presence in California, and we know that an alliance has been made with Wolfram & Hart.  Whether or not Screamer will prove effective against them we cannot ascertain"

"And the strike this morning?"

SecDef nodded.  "The operation was a tactical success; civilian casualties were minimal, and the public has no reason to suspect that it was anything other than a terrorist strike.  The investigation will be directed in-house, and reliable elements of the FBI will handle the "crime scene" aspect, so we retain full control at both ends.   In addition, NorthCom has dispatched security forces in and around Los Angeles to "lend" assistance to law enforcement, so the movements of our primary strike forces should not garner any unwarranted attention from the press."

"Whose idea was it?" the President wanted to know.

"We crafted the operational plan several years back," the DDO informed him.  "The initial concept was to justify internal military operations against a perceived domestic threat.  It was easily adapted to the current scenario."

"And our friends in Sunnydale?"

"There's been no significant activity to speak of sir.  The Vatican has operatives in place to assist them, and we have a pipeline to a member of the Slayer's internal circle."

"He's trustworthy? Asked POTUS.  Loyalty was a quality he both admired and demanded of his people.

"He's a bit unorthodox, but he has some knowledge of military operations, and is utterly loyal to the Slayer.  We are confident he will do as we ask, provided it does not unnecessarily endanger his friends."

"You don't plan to tell her, then?"

"No, sir.  Her experience with the military has made her wary of our intentions, and the Vatican believes it best that she not know what is in store for her until absolutely necessary."

"She's a human being," POTUS reminded them, "Not some kind of animal."

"That's not exactly true, Mr. President," the FBI Director asserted.  "Since her last death, the girl's physiological structure has been significantly altered at the cellular level, according to our tests.  I'm told by our friends at the Vatican that this is due to the manner of her reanimation, as well as continuing changes associated with the natural aging process of Slayers."

"What do you mean by "continuing changes", the President asked of the Director.

"According to our contacts within the Watcher's Council, the innate power of each Slayer grows as she ages, leading to greater sensory perception, increased physical prowess and diminished emotional capacity.  The Summers girl is already the second longest surviving Slayer on record."

"Wait just a damn minute," the President interjected.  "You're telling me that this girl is becoming an animal."  He wasn't as dumb as he was rumored to be.

The Director nodded reluctantly.  "In essence, yes.  She should continue to regress emotionally, even as her instincts and abilities become more acute.  There is a documented case of a Slayer living to the age of twenty six.  According to the extant Watcher's journals, by that age, she had retained little semblance of her former self."

"But what of the other influence?  Might that mitigate the effects."?  

The Director nodded again.  "It is possible, though we cannot be certain of its long-term effects.  We must remember that her reincarnation was not effected by scientific, or even Para-scientific, means."

"But the Sunnydale contingent still believes that it was due to their magical intervention?" the President's Chief of Staff asked.

"That is correct," the Director confirmed.  "Except for the boy.  It is in our best interests to perpetuate that belief for the time being"

"And what is the situation with the Watcher's Council?"

"We are continuing to closely monitor the situation, Mr. President.  That operation is being run by MI-5, with the blessing of the Home Office.  We are confident "regime change" will occur within the week." 

"What will happen to those that are…deposed?" the President wondered aloud.

The DDO put on his best politician's face.  "I believe the appropriate term is disappeared.   They know too much, sir."

"And this Travers character?"  

"He will be dealt with in the same manner, once we pin down his location.  It seems Mr. Travers has taken an unscheduled leave of absence from his duties, and has absconded to Los Angeles with a significant portion of the Council archives."

"There's no question then?" the President posited.  He wasn't one given to believe in coincidence.

"None at all sir."

"All right," POTUS concluded, changing the subject.  "What's our next step, then?"

"Sir," the DDO piped in.  "We will continue to identify and target the human aspect of the conspiracy, and work to contain the sub-terrestrial threat, but the next major step will be taken by the Vatican's agent-in-place."

"Who is this man?" the President demanded to know.

"As I understand it, sir, he's not a man," SecDef informed him.  "As to his true nature, the Vatican advised me only that I didn't want to know, and not to press the issue."

"Do we at least know what his plans are?" asked the Chief of Staff.

"We know that he will work to effect some transformation within the Slayer.  They did not tell us what mechanism he plans to employ."

"But we have some idea." POTUS observed suspiciously.

The Attorney General, silent until now, fielded that one.  "Sir, have you ever seen _Indiana Jones_…?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Shady Hill Cemetery**

**The same morning**

The rising sun cast long shadows over the endless rows of tombstones, the stray rays of light revealing a scene of utter carnage and death interspersed among the stone memorials.  The bodies lie mostly where they had fallen, their grotesque forms stretched out in congealed pools of demon blood, the faces forever frozen in a mask of horror and shock.  It seemed, at least for one night, the predators had become the prey.

And yet, the one responsible for the destruction was not yet satisfied.  Clutching a blood-stained sword in hand, the hunter strode purposefully through the cemetery, searching out any who had eluded her wrath.  A stone crypt stood before her, the otherworldly essence emanating from within extending an unspoken invitation, begging her to come inside and unleash her vengeance.   She quickly closed the distance to the entrance, ignoring the handle as she struck out with her fist in rage, tearing the heavy steel door from its hinges and hurtling it to the darkness inside.  She sheathed the blade as she stepped across the threshold, flexing her fingers as she checked for any injuries to her seemingly delicate hands.  Of course, there were none.

The interior of the crypt remained dark, though with her enhanced vision, the difference between night and day was almost negligible.  She could hear them scattering before she saw them, their feet scuffling in the thick dust as they took cover from the early morning sun.  She almost hoped they would try to run…almost.  Buffy stepped out of the light, walking into the shadows to give them a chance, making a sport of their imminent death.

Predictably, the first attacker lunged at her from behind, its claws reaching for her arms, fangs extended in search of a quick breakfast.  The Slayer instinctively spun to the right, her left arm reaching across her chest and extending over her right shoulder, grasping the forearm of her attacker.  Simultaneously, her right hand snapped back, grasping the upper arm of the vampire, clamping on with such force as to make the female bloodsucker scream out in pain.  Buffy shifted her weight, dropping to her left knee as she flipped the vampire over her shoulder and into the stone wall ten feet in front of her.  The creature's skull impacted on stone, rewarding the Slayer with a satisfying crunch.  Immediately, Buffy dropped to the floor, spinning around and catching the next attacker with a well-placed sweep of the leg.  The vampire dropped like dead weight, stunned by the sheer speed of the attack.  He quickly jumped back to his feet as the Slayer lashed out again, crushing his trachea with a lightning quick snap-kick.  The bloodsucker stumbled backwards, instinctively clawing at his throat, his indignant scream of protest registering as only a muted hiss.  

She fought the urge to finish him off quickly.  Buffy waited as the vamp struggled to his feet, then slowly stalked toward him, deliberately dropping her stake in the process.  Her opponent lashed out clumsily, his desperate roundhouse easily batted aside by the Slayer, who quickly countered with a punch of her own.  What happened next surprised them both.

Buffy followed through with her punch, putting all of her considerable strength behind it.  Her fist exploded into the vampire's chest, instantly shattering several of its ribs.  It didn't stop there.  Propelled forward by its own momentum, her balled hand tore into the vamp's chest cavity, the kinetic force transferring to the demon's unbeating heart, propelling the dead organ through the back of the rib cage.  Buffy stared in utter shock as the mass of necrotic tissue erupted from the demon's back, splattering grotesquely against the stone wall, before slowly sliding to the cement floor, leaving a stream of entrails in its wake.  The recently-eviscerated monster gaped at the Slayer in disbelief, looking in mute amazement at the tiny arm on which he was now impaled.  

Regaining her senses, Buffy withdrew her arm, recoiling in semi-disgust at the decayed blood now coating her arm.  No longer supported by the Slayer, the demon's body momentarily hung in midair, its lifeless eyes still affixed on the young girl, before it crashed unceremoniously to the floor, and lie unmoving.  Almost as an afterthought, Buffy toed the discarded heart, kicking it out the front door and into the waiting sunlight, turning it – and its previous owner – to dust.  One down.  One to go.

Buffy turned back to the female vamp, glaring at the mass of blond tresses cowering in the corner.  A glimmer of recognition flashed over the Slayer's face as she got a better look at her nemesis.  _Harmony.  _It almost brought a smile to her face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For her part, Harmony wasn't having a much better time than the Slayer.  What had started as a routine night for the intellectually-challenged vampiress  had quickly devolved into a desperate struggle for survival.  In all honesty, she hadn't been surprised that he'd come back – with his track record it had only been a matter of time – or even that he'd once again resorted to killing his own kind.  But the fact that Spike had nearly incinerated her entire pack had come as a rude awakening.

She'd survived of course, partially flambéed and reeking of lighter fluid, but on the whole, none the worse for wear.  It was in her haste to escape that she'd erred, failing to recognize the telltale signs of a textbook case of  Slayer rage, namely the vast number of demon corpses littering the otherwise meticulous cemetery grounds.  She'd only known that sun was about to rise, and that getting a suntan was not on her list of things to do.  Seeking refuge in a crypt with the sole remainder of her brood – his name had escaped her at the time – she'd sensed the Slayer's presence just a little too late, and in doing so, had sealed her fate.

Now, lying prone on the floor, Harmony stole a furtive glance at the Slayer.  Her vision blurred, both from the skull fracture she'd just sustained and the blood flowing freely from the scalp laceration, she could barely discern a pair of black leather boots striding across the cement floor in her direction.  Her last thought, before mercifully succumbing to unconsciousness, was that they were nice boots.  Really nice boots.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Buffy paced restlessly around the shattered body of the comatose vamp, her hands clasped behind her back as she surveyed the damage she'd inflicted, contemplating her course of action.  She knew she should just stake Harmony and be done with it, but somehow, it just didn't seem right.  Given their mutual history, Harmony deserved something a little more inspired.  Something a little more painful…actually, a lot more painful.  Buffy glanced back to the open doorway, and then again to where the vampire lie.  _Eastern exposure, _her mind registered.  That had definite possibilities.  To be honest, Harmony was looking a little pallid.  Maybe a little sunlight would take care of that.  

Reaching down, Buffy grabbed a handful of Harmony's hair with her left hand, easily lifting the limp vampire from the floor.  Raising the bloodied head to shoulder height, she reached inside her coat, drawing the sword from the sheath inside.  Smiling for the first time that night, the Slayer thrust the steel blade through Harmony's stomach, effectively impaling her against the wall.  For good measure, she grasped each of the vampire's arms in turn, breaking them both for good measure.  

Satisfied, Buffy stepped back, positioning herself between the door and Harmony, effectively blocking the path down which the sunlight would soon be traveling.  And then she waited.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first thing Harmony noticed upon regaining consciousness was that her stomach hurt.  A lot.  That realization was soon followed by an acute awareness that there was a long, slender object protruding from her belly, and that, for some reason, she couldn't move her arms very well.  On the bright side, at least now she couldn't feel the pain in her head.   

"I was afraid you wouldn't wake up in time." Though Harmony's body had no internal source of heat, the voice still managed to chill her to the bone.

Through blood-encrusted eyes, Harmony could just make out the diminutive figure of a small woman standing in front of her, though initially, she couldn't tell who it was.  But the memories came back:  Spike, fire, running like hell, crypt, Slayer.  _This couldn't be good.  _"B-Buffy…h-hey," she stammered.  "I seem to be stuck.  You think you could give me a hand?"

The Slayer arched an eyebrow, feigning interest.  "Why, Harm?  Is there something wrong with yours?"

It was about that time that Harmony noticed the shadow the Slayer cast on her, as well as the uncomfortable proximity of the early morning sun to her unprotected skin.  Harmony may have been ignorant, but she wasn't totally oblivious.  "Can we at least talk about this?"

"Talk, Harmony?  I don't recall us ever really talking before.  In fact, I seem to remember that you were always too good to talk to me."

"I was wrong," pleaded Harmony.  "I-I know I never really gave you a chance, but I can change.  We could be friends."

The thought elicited a cold laugh from the Slayer.  "You know, Harm – I'll always cherish the initial misconceptions I had about you.  Here I thought you were just an insipid little bitch.  I never realized you were spineless to boot."

Panic began to set in as Harmony felt the first rays of sunlight tickle her blood-encrusted hair.  "You can't do this!" She protested vehemently.  "You're Buffy.  You're the good guy.  You don't torture people!"

"You're not people, Harmony," Buffy reminded her coldly.  "What you are is a pathetic excuse for a demon.  Show a little backbone and die with at least a modicum of dignity."

The panic turned to rage as the futility of her situation set in.  "You think this matters, Slayer?" Harmony hissed at her.  "You can kill me, but you can't get us all.  In the end, nothing you do will make a difference!"

Buffy shrugged dismissively.  "I know.  It's a thankless job, but I have a lot of karma to burn off.  And speaking of burning, Harm, I believe your hair's on fire."

The vampire instinctively raised her hands to her head, forgetting momentarily about the broken bones inside.  She'd only managed to lift them to her shoulders when the pain became unbearable, forcing her to lower them back to her side, where they dangled uselessly.

"Please," she pleaded, repeating the word over and over until it grew into a scream of agony.  The hairspray she'd carelessly applied the previous night finally ignited, consuming her upper body entirely.  Buffy watched dispassionately as the flames began spreading downward, ignoring the demon's dying wails.  At the last possible moment, she retracted the sword form Harmony's torso.  Freed from the blade, Harmony's blazing form dropped to the floor, collapsing into a cloud of dust before it made contact.   And as the dust settled, Buffy turned on her heel, and walked out into the sunlight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**1600 Revello Drive**

**0730 hrs**

Some mornings were just better than others.  The truism generally didn't apply to Mondays per se, except perhaps on those occasions when school happened to be canceled.  Fortunately for Dawn Summers, this was one of those days.

Straddling the kitchen stool, Dawn scanned the front page of the newspaper, sipping a large glass of orange juice as she perused the headlines, or in this case, headline.  On this morning, one story dominated the front page.   Engrossed by the headline, Dawn didn't' bother to look up as the kitchen door opened and closed.

"What do you call a hundred dead lawyers?" she mused aloud.

"Karmic justice?" guessed Xander, retrieving a glazed donut from the box on the countertop.

"Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a good start," Dawn said, looking up from the paper with a rare Monday morning smile.  "But your answer works too."

Xander crammed the entire donut into his mouth.  "When did you become so callous, Dawnster?" 

"Around the time puberty set in.  All those rampaging hormones make Dawn cold and indifferent.  And for the record, my name's actually Dawn, not Dawnster.  It even says so on my birth certificate."

"Your birth certificate's not real." Xander pointed out.

"It's signed and notarized, Xand.  That makes it official.  You wanna fight city hall on this?"

He hung his head in resignation.  "I have no chance of winning this argument, do I?" 

"No chance in hell," Dawn confirmed.  "Remember, bitchy teenager here."

Now it was Xander who smiled.  "You're many things, Dawn.  But a bitch is not one of them."

"And you, Xander Harris, are a terrible liar, but a sweetheart nonetheless." 

Xander swallowed the last of the donut, pulling a carton of milk from the fridge and taking a healthy swig.  "You don't by any chance still have a crush me, do you?"

Dawn shook her head morosely, not the least bit embarrassed.  "Nope.  I'm afraid my school-girl crush has grown into a full-blown case of borderline obsessive teenage lust."

"I hate to burst your bubble, young lady, but the only ride you're getting from me is a ride to school."  

"I just love it when you call me young lady," Dawn said, pouting her lips seductively.  "It makes me feel all bad and dirty inside."

"You're incorrigible, Dawn."

"I'm also cute, articulate, and accident-prone.  And I'm not going to school."

"You're not?"

"It's cancelled.  The guy on the radio said something about "structural failure", but I pretty much tuned out after hearing "_School's cancelled_."

"Structural failure?" repeated Xander, putting the milk back in the refrigerator.

"That's what the man said.  I think the library floor collapsed into the basement, or something like that.  I blame shoddy craftsmanship."

"Dawn, I built that damn school."

"I know.  I'm ashamed for the both of us."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence," Xander said sarcastically, "I guess I should probably get over there while I still have a job."

"I wouldn't bother.  You're probably already fired."

"Dawn…stop it"

"You'll be evicted from your apartment," she added.

"Cut it out!"

"You'll be homeless.  You'll probably have to shack up with me."

"I'm not listening to you," Xander warned, covering his ears and singing loudly and very off-key.  "La La La La."

Dawn still ignored him.  "It's a good thing I have a double bed.  Would you say you're more of a snuggler or a cuddler?"

"I'm leaving now," Xander informed her, his hands still covering his ears as he opened the door and backed out.  "I'm going to forget we ever had this conversation."

Sometimes it was just too easy.  Dawn slid off the stool.  "Hold up, loverboy, I'm coming with."  

Xander dropped his hands.  "You want to go to school on a day off?"

"God no.  I wanna stop by Stacey's; It's on the way."

Xander mulled it over.  "You promise to behave?"

"Scout's honor," Dawn assured him, placing one hand solemnly over her heart.  "I promise – no more suggestive comments."

"Dawn – you were never a girl scout." Xander reminded her.

"I might have been," she countered, grabbing her house keys and sauntering to the door.  "But in all fairness, I have only those wacky monks to blame for that one.  And besides, since when is my word not good enough for you?"

"That was a rhetorical question, right?"  The look on her face suggested otherwise, so Xander gestured to the truck.  "All right, I give up…get in," he conceded.  "But at least tell me one thing."

"What's that?"

"Why is it that I can never say no to you?"

Dawn smiled at him sweetly.  "I'm just too damn adorable.  That, and you're severely lacking in the willpower department."

"I have willpower," Xander protested, holding open the passenger door for Dawn.

"Of course you do, Xander.  Tell me, when's the last time you said no to someone?"

"Ask your sister," he muttered, closing the door and walking around to the driver's side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Crawford Street**

**Monday Morning**

The street was beginning to come alive on this September morning, the usual sights and sounds signaling the arrival of another routine business week.  A lone garbage truck rumbled noisily down the asphalt lane, jarring the last of the early-morning risers from their blissful slumber.  Men and women in business suits trickled steadily from their carbon-copy suburban homes, eager to begin another day at the office.  A few enthusiastic children, taking full advantage of a rare weekday off, were already outdoors enjoying the late summer warmth.  Everywhere on Crawford Street, it seemed, people were embarking on the ubiquitous adventure known as Monday morning.  Everywhere, that is, except in the brownstone at 1216.

There was no activity in the house, save for the monotonous drip of the coffee maker as it spewed out its wondrous caffeine tonic.  There was no rush for the bathroom, no microwavable breakfast foods consumed, and no kiss goodbye at the front door.  In short, nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.

Until approximately 1 a.m., the home had been occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Gellar, along with their sixteen year-old daughter.  They were a happy upper-middle class family; sober, non-abusive parents and a spunky, if slightly over energetic teenage daughter.  Mr. and Mrs. Gellar had raised their daughter well, teaching her life's lessons as they saw fit, and letting her learn others on her own.  She had learned one of the latter only hours before, though it had come at a very steep price.  The recently deceased Mr. and Mrs. Gellar could have testified to that.

Their only child lay motionless on her bed; the white comforter stained a dark crimson with her blood.  She knew she was dying, both from the hemorrhaging of blood, and the internal injuries inflicted on her; for that, at least, she was thankful.  

She'd been smitten with him from the moment she'd first laid eyes on him, the prototype bad boy, the kind her parents had warned her about.  From his bleach-blonde hair, black duster, and the cigarette dangling precariously from his pale lips, she knew he was trouble.  That's probably why she was so turned on in the first place.  

He'd been the one to approach her, charming her with his Cockney accent and confident manner.  They'd talked, danced, and talked some more, intermingled with brief yet furious make-out sessions in a darkened corner of the Bronze.  The motorcycle had sealed the deal.

Climbing onto the chromed-out Harley Davidson, she couldn't help but notice the envious looks she was getting from the other girls, especially after she wrapped her arms around his lean, muscular form.  Ever the gentleman, he'd taken her home, even insisting on walking her to the door.  Beneath the security light, he'd given her a remarkably chaste goodbye kiss, even as her father had appeared at the door.  And that was when everything, quite literally, went to hell.

In retrospect, she should have noticed the signs.  His skin, his incredibly _pale_ skin, had been incredibly cool to the touch, though in all fairness she did have other things on her mind at the time.  And of course, there was the remarkable sense of hearing, though she had simply ascribed it to his overriding attentiveness. After all, she was, among other things, exceedingly interesting.  She had overlooked all of those things.  But what had happened on her doorstep could not be ignored.

**_Six hours earlier:_**

She'd seen guys change before, just not in the literal sense, and not right before her disbelieving eyes.  No sooner had her father appeared in the doorway, admonishing her for once again staying out too late (and on a Sunday night to boot), than the nightmare had begun.   It was the face that gave it away.  His eyes had inexplicably changed color, suddenly imbued with an unnatural yellowish hue, the light from the overhead bulb perfectly reflected in them.  The transformation had spread quickly to the rest of his face, the pronounced ridges above and around the eyes announcing to the rest of the world that he was truly "not like other guys".   But what had scared her most was the hand wrapped tightly around her father's throat, and the surprise and fear reflected in daddy's eyes.

The corner's of William's mouth had curled upwards slowly, twisting his perfect mouth into a cruel imitation of the genuine article.  "Invite me in, luv" he recommended, almost sounding reasonable, "or I make you an orphan."  Naively, she'd acceded to the suggestion, and allowed the demon into her home.  Had she been thinking clearly, or been a bit more fatalistic, she might have refused, sacrificing both she and her father in order to spare her mother's life.  But she wasn't a martyr, and lacked the capacity to think clearly at any rate.  And so both of her parents had died, instead of just the one.

Predictably, he'd turned on her father first, but hadn't killed him outright.  Bruised and bloodied, and lightheaded from the loss of blood (William always like to eat before playing), daddy had been forced to watch as the monster had its way with his wife, forcefully violating every orifice in her body, his passion only intensified by her repeated screams and pleas for mercy.  She felt guilty, the daughter did, sitting there watching as the vampire repeatedly raped her mother.  She knew what was coming, what these creatures were and what they represented, but she was helpless to stop it.

In due course, he'd finished with mom, ending her life with an effortless snap of the neck.  Her father had followed soon after, but not before William had knelt down beside his broken body, whispering one last taunt into his remaining "good" ear before ending the man's life as well.  And then he turned to face her, that sexy smile adorning his face as his features returned to normal.  "Your turn, pet."

She tried to run of course, mentally willing her uncooperative legs to move, but shock had already set in, and she remained frozen in place, resigned to her fate.  He stalked over to her, his long white fingers forcibly grasping her chin, forcing her to look at him as he extended his bloody fangs.  His other hand grasped at her blouse, tearing the buttons from the fabric in one swipe, his calloused fingers returning to grope her roughly, alternately squeezing and pinching her small breasts through the cotton bra.  She moaned involuntarily as he began licking her face, tracing a line across her tear-stained cheek.  "I'm going to eat you," he purred into her ear, more a promise than a threat.

He smiled again, giving her a quick peck on the cheek.  Then he grabbed her by her flowing red mane, brutally dragging her up the staircase behind him.  She stumbled along, crying profusely as she tried in vain to maintain her balance, her arms flailing uselessly at the unperturbed vampire.  He randomly kicked in doors, searching impatiently until he found the room he was looking for.  Dragging her into the room, he flung her violently onto the bed, the one she'd slept on for years, the same one in which she dreamed of one day losing her virginity.  She never dreamed it would be like this.

Growling ferally, he tore off the rest of her clothes, leaving her trembling naked on the thick white comforter, praying in vain that her death would be quick.  He deftly yanked off his belt, shedding his black jeans, and with them the last vestiges of humanity.  She closed her eyes as he set upon her, taking both his pleasure, and his time.  The last sensation she ever had, before descending into merciful oblivion hours later, was that of the monster sinking his fangs into her slender neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

**Residential Sunnydale**

**Xander's Truck**

**0815 Hrs**

"You know where she lives, right?"

Xander stole a glance at the young girl, not for the first time during the short drive.  "Yeah, I'm familiar with the area, Dawn" he assured her, recalling a certain nearby mansion that carried with it quite a few unpleasant memories.  "Your sister used to, uh, spend a lot of time around here."

Dawn didn't press the issue, knowing full well that the Angel subject was a touchy issue with Xander.  "Speaking of Buffy, have you two talked yet?"

"Not so much," he admitted, both to himself and to Dawn.  "What I meant to say is, I tried, but she wasn't what you would call receptive."

"You mean you two fought." She observed bluntly.

"Only if you consider yelling and screaming to be fighting.  I personally like to think of it more as a spirited commentary on some of her life choices."

"Oh.  I see.  So basically what you're saying is that you were all judgmental and insulting, and didn't give her a chance to tell her side of the story.  I guess it's safe to assume that you didn't let her down gently?"

"One could safely make that assumption," Xander conceded.  "Though in my defense, the opportunity didn't really present itself."

Dawn accepted that for the time being.  "You do realize that I'm now obligated to hate you."

He nodded.  "Most of the women in my life hate me.  Why should you be any different."?

"You still feel bad about Anya, don't you."

Another nod.  "It's not like I'm still in love with her, if I ever really was.  I just regret the way I ended it, the way we left things."  

"You should keep that in mind," Dawn suggested sagely.  "Burning bridges can get to be a bad habit."

Xander arched an eyebrow, gazing at her in something akin to admiration.  "Again with the subtlety.  When did you become so damn clever?"

Dawn smiled brightly.  "Around the time you all became so emotionally crippled.  I figured one of us should keep their head on straight.  Who better than me?"

"That settles it, then.  You get to be the level-headed one.  Can I start calling you Velma?"

Dawn glared at him, her eyes narrowing into mere slits.  "Only if you want to lose your tongue.  I don't swing that way."

Xander felt his hair stand on end.  "Has anybody ever told you that you're a very scary person?"

Dawn's smile grew.  "Nobody presently among the living," she confirmed.

Xander returned the smile and raised her a wink.  "Let's keep it that way." 

"Agreed," she said magnanimously, glancing out the window.  "It's right up here on the left.  1216."

Xander pulled smoothly into the cement driveway, toggling the locks as the Dodge came to a stop.  "You want me to wait.  Make sure she's here?"

Dawn rolled her eyes.  "Xander, it's 8:30 in the morning.  Where else would she be?"  She climbed out of the car, shut the door and turned back leaning into the window.  "Thanks for the ride."

"You're welcome, and I'll see you tonight.  Hasta.''  He put the dodge in gear, backing out onto the road, as he waved goodbye.  

Dawn blew a kiss at the departing truck, and then turned and strolled up the cement walk to the front door, hoping Stacy wouldn't kill her for showing up so early.  She rang the doorbell.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End chapter 11.  Feedback?  Advice?  Death threats?  Let me know.

Rabid Squirrel


	12. When In Doubt, Look to the Nearest Bad G...

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaime__r:_ If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction? Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_ Bad guys, good guys, Armageddon. Get the picture?

_Spoilers__:_ Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects. 

_Rating:_R, for violence, strong language, and perverse sexual content. 

_Dedication_: To Babette:  Though I don't remember you, I'm better off for having known you.

_Anti-Dedication_:  To Joss, for betraying all B/Xer's; and Marti, for her uninspired story arcs and blatantly inconsistent characterizations.  It's almost a relief that it's coming to an end.  Almost.

_Feedback:_ Constructive criticism, advice, and words of encouragement are all accepted.  So are bribes, tributes, and human sacrifices.  All flames will be turned back on their originator.   Burn, baby, burn!

_Words to live by:_  "I don't get it.  I finally did a job where I wasn't lazy, stupid, or corrupt, and I'm gonna get killed for it."   _Homer Simpson _

Chapter 12:  "When In Doubt, Look to the Nearest Bad Guy" 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**Ann Arundel County, Maryland**

Monday, 0845 Hrs 

14 hrs, 45 minutes, 36 seconds, and counting.  He'd spent the majority of that time locked inside the reinforced concrete vault, buried deep within the black steel and glass structure that served as the headquarters of the NSA/CSS –the National Security Agency/Central Security Service.  Of course, time was a somewhat of a relative concept where he was concerned, given that he'd spent the last ten years of his life as a professional student, the first four as an undergraduate at Cal Tech, the subsequent four as a graduate student and doctoral candidate at MIT, and the last two honing his craft at the National Cryptologic School, undoubtedly the most exclusive of the three.  And though he had advanced degrees in both theoretical mathematics and string theory, he presently functioned more or less as a run-of-the-mill cipher clerk, albeit one with a super-grade civil-service rank and the salary to go with it.

Foregoing the bottle of No-Doze stashed away in his pocket, he sipped patiently at his bottle of Cherry Coke, waiting expectantly as the Cray mainframe ran through a complex set of algorithms, translating the intercepted string of 0's and 1's into something slightly more recognizable.  After an interminable pause, the flat screen on his Silicon Graphics Workstation blinked to life, displaying the first few lines of decrypted text.  What he saw held little meaning for him, though, given the priority of the intercept, it must of have meant something to someone:

Classified Top Secret / Eyes Only – Director

Voice Transcript

10-01-02; 06:38:02

Echelon 06875775

SIGINT_PRI_1.0

Satellite Telephone Intercept – decrypted text message to follow:

_____________________________________________________________________________

__

**[Voice Print Unknown; Assign Subject A]:**_  **…advise current op status of Longbow units. **_

**[Voice Print Authentication; Subject Stryker]:**_  **OPCent offline.  Longbow 1 not reporting; 2 and 3 at 50% strength.  Readiness level below minimum operational parameters.  _[Pause]  _We're dropping like flies out here, Six.  What the bloody hell's going on? **_

**[Subject A]_:_**_  **presently unable to ascertain nature of threat.   Confidence is high, repeat, confidence is high of level 1 attack.  Believe INFOSEC compromised at all levels; primary communication channels not secure.  Use of random ciphers authorized.  Institute Condition 1 protocols and await further instructions on my authority. **  _

**[Subject Stryker]_:  _**_**Confirm Directive A.  Implement failsafe protocol and stand by for orders **_

Transmission terminated.

End MESSAGE:  10-01-02; 0640:06

The cryptanalyst read over the transcript twice, visually checking the clear text message against the encrypted printout, before ripping the latter from the laser printer and placing it in a sealed burn bag.   He printed the text message, flagging it with a priority 1 label before sliding it carefully into a folder.  He then turned and handed it to the uniformed man standing behind him. 

 "So what's this all about, Major?"

The usually stoic officer chuckled slightly in response.  "You know Reese, I once asked the Colonel that very same question.  You know what he told me?"

"Don't ask!" both men answered in unison, laughing at the popular in-house joke.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**1216 Crawford Street**

**Sunnydale, CA**

Monday morning, 0845 hrs 

She'd tried knocking; that hadn't worked.  The doorbell and cell-phone had yielded similar results.  Something was definitely not right with this picture.  Puzzled, Dawn walked over to the attached 2-car garage, peeking through the dirt-encrusted windows.  Oddly enough, both cars were still inside.

_This can't be good, _Dawn thought, jumping in surprise as she felt something brush up against her leg.   She looked down, afraid of what she would see; much to her relief, it was only a cat.  _Jesus, Dawn – edgy much?_  

 "Hey there Mr. Bigglesworth," she said sweetly, greeting Stacey's mischief-prone pet.  "I don't suppose you have any idea what's going on, do you?"   If Mr. Bigglesworth knew anything, he wasn't talking.  The tomcat gave Dawn a perfunctory look, finding little of interest in the teenage girl, then turned and darted off into the bushes, hot on the trail of yet another hapless squirrel.  

Alone once more, Dawn stalked back across the sidewalk to the front door.  She glanced over her shoulder casually, ensuring that no neighbors were watching.  Then, giving in to her repressed criminal instincts, she grabbed the doorknob firmly in hand, giving it a twist on the outside chance it might be unlocked.  Much to her surprise – and dismay – the door swung wide open.   Ignoring the little voice inside her head – the one telling her that this was quite possibly the biggest mistake since New Coke – Dawn crossed the threshold and walked inside.  After all, it wasn't really breaking-and-entering if the door was open…was it?

Pulling the door shut behind her, Dawn boldly stepped into the open foyer and took a quick look around.  Aside from the unlocked door and the overwhelming silence, nothing seemed overtly out of place.  "Stace," she called out hesitantly, her voice barely more than a whisper.  "You here?"  There was no response.

Seeing nothing of particular interest in the hallway or the adjoining living room, Dawn ventured further into the house, her nose detecting the unmistakable aroma of freshly brewed coffee.  She followed the scent to the kitchen, peering furtively around the corner of a wall into the newly renovated room.  As with the rest of the house, nothing here seemed out of place.  The counter, as always, was spotless, its stainless-steel surface polished to a gleaming shine.  The industrial-sized sink imbedded within the countertop sat empty, unmarred by the usual remnants of a hurried weekday breakfast.  

Now more than just a little concerned, Dawn increased her pace, trotting to the back stairs and bounding up the spiral wooden staircase two steps at a time.  "Stacey, it's Dawn.  Where the hell are you?" she called out, a sharp edge to her voice.  Still, there was no answer.  Expertly navigating the 90-degree corner at the top of the staircase, Dawn breezed past the bathroom and towel closet, not bothering to check either door.  Directly in front of her, the door to Stacey's bedroom stood slightly ajar, bearing mute testimony to Dawn's suspicion that something was horribly wrong.  Above all else, Stacey's room was her sanctuary, an oasis in the angst-laden drama of her teenage life; she never left the door open.  Acutely aware of that fact, Dawn slowed, approaching the room cautiously, her ears straining to pick up any stray sound.  Stopping in front of the door, she reached out, tentatively touching the faux brass handle with the tips of her fingers.  As she slowly curled her hand around the polished metal fixture, she felt a warm, sticky residue fouling the inside surface.   Dawn recoiled in disgust at the sensation, instinctively wiping her hand on the leg of her khakis. Her eyes grew wide as they took in the color of the offending substance.  There was no mistaking it; she'd seen bloodstains too many times not to know.

Gathering what remained of her courage – despite of what she feared awaited her on the other side – Dawn pushed the door open further, its movement creating a slight whispering sound as the wood brushed lightly against the plush carpet.  She slowly poked her head inside and looked around.  To the uninitiated, the room looked as if a tornado had torn through it; random articles of clothing and countless pairs of shoes were haphazardly strewn about, and several glossy fashion magazines were littered about the floor, random pages torn from each issue.  To Dawn, the room looked completely normal, at least where Stacey was concerned.    

She stepped inside the bedroom, her breath now coming in staccato gasps.  Despite the near eighty-degree temperature outside, a distinct chill permeated the room, causing the hair on her neck to stand on end.  Dawn shivered involuntarily, wrapping her arms around herself in an unsuccessful attempt to fend off the goose bumps flooding her skin.  She swore she could actually feel the weight of the air bearing down on her, could practically smell the stench of evil in the room.  It was as if death itself were standing in the room beside her.  Dawn had no idea how right she was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Xander's Truck                        **

**En-route to Sunnydale High School**

"They said what?" Xander screamed into the tiny Motorola, his white knuckles threatening to crack the fragile casing.

There was a pause on the other end as the man considered how best to respond.  Xander Harris may well have been the most laid-back person on the face of the earth (the man had never met Daniel Osbourne), but over the past few months his increasing lack of patience had become legendary among his crew.  "They…uh…. said it…um…might have been due to localized seismic activity."

The most laid-back man on the face of the earth was not the least bit placated.  "Localized seismic activity?  What the fuck's that supposed to mean?  I didn't feel any goddamned earthquake!"

Fortunately for both of them, Xander couldn't see the other man's reaction, or the face he was making at the moment.  "All I know is what the city engineers told me, Mr. Harris."  And that, unfortunately, wasn't much.

Xander let it go for the time being.  He took a deep breath.  "All right, we'll worry about the cause later.  Give me some good news, Roger.  How extensive is the damage?"

"It's too early to tell," the other man admitted warily, wishing for the umpteenth time that he hadn't answered the telephone this morning.  "Whatever happened, it took out a few load-bearing walls, collapsing the library floor and a portion of the roof.  We're shoring up the basement supports as we speak, but there's still the matter of the crack in the foundation."

"The crack," repeated Xander, not really wanting to hear any more, but knowing that he would.

"Yeah, well, it's actually more of a hole.  A really, really deep hole."

"What are we talking here?  Five, ten feet?  How far down does it go?"

The man on the other end of the line swallowed audibly.  "I, uh, think it goes down all the way."

"All the way to what?" Xander demanded.

"China wouldn't be out of the question," his subordinate offered, hoping a little humor might alleviate the tension.  It didn't.

"Jesus H. Christ…" Xander muttered to himself, the remainder of the epithet unintelligible to the man on the other end.   It was then that he noticed the purse still lying on the seat next to him.  "Dammit!"

"Excuse me, sir?  I didn't catch that."

"It was nothing," Xander mumbled into the receiver.  "Look, I've gotta take care of something.  I'll be there in about twenty minutes.  Until then, you're in charge.  Don't fuck up."  He hit the end button, not bothering to get an acknowledgement from the other end.  Whipping a u-turn at the next intersection, he reversed course and sped back in the direction of Stacey's house.  He really did not need this today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**1216 Crawford Street**

That same time 

If asked to name the top ten most frightening experiences of one's lifetime, it's highly unlikely that anyone would include among them something as mundane as the sound of a door closing.  For Dawn Summers, however, that very event had just vaulted to number three on the list, trailing only an ill-conceived kidnapping by a pack of inept vampires, and an attempted sacrifice by an intemperate hell god.   

She didn't turn around, not at first.  Dawn knew who was in the room with her, or more accurately, who it used to be.  The voice she heard may have belonged to her friend, but she knew it wasn't her, not anymore.  It was that thought, and not the chill in the air, that made her blood run cold.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice conspicuously devoid of emotion.

Behind her, the half-breed demon smiled, wearing the same lipstick Stacey had worn the previous night.  In fact, everything it now wore had belonged to Stacey, including the body it presently occupied.  Of course, the girl no longer had any use for it; not where she was. 

"You know who I am, Dawn."

Dawn still refused to face the demon.  "I know who you were.  What I want to know is who you are now." 

_Humans; they always had to make things difficult_.  "Does it really matter?" 

Dawn clenched her teeth, her hands curling into fists as she fought the overwhelming urge to rip out the demon's heart with her bare hands.  "It matters to me."

The demon-formerly-known-as-Stacey shook her head in amusement, almost feeling sympathy for the other girl.  "There's no point in dragging this out, sweetie.  You're only delaying the inevitable."

That wasn't exactly a revelation to Dawn, though she had bigger fish to fry at the moment.  "Just answer the question."

The hint of a smile flashed across the vampire's face, which, for the first time in its afterlife, betrayed signs of its true nature.  "If that's how you wanna play it, kid," Stacey admonished, donning her game face in its entirety.  You asked me who I am, what I am?"  She paused, carefully choosing her words, something the real Stacey had never taken the time to do.   "I'm the future."   

Her ostentatious display was lost on Dawn, who still refused to face her, if only to buy herself a little time.  "What you are is full of shit," Dawn informed the demon masquerading behind Stacey's face.  "You're an infection, a sexually transmitted disease.  Nothing more than that."

That response occasioned a knowing smile.  "If that's what you have to tell yourself, you go right ahead.  But in the end, we both know better.   I don't have a name, Dawnie, because I have no need for one.  I'm the boogeyman, the thing that keeps you and your kind awake at night.  And I'm not alone; there are more like me, a lot worse than I am, and they're all coming..." Stacey allowed her voice to trail off, her gaze following Dawn's as the girl shifted her head slightly, glancing toward the single window in the bedroom.  "Western exposure, Dawn," she reminded the girl.  "Not gonna get the job done.  You'd never make it anyway."

Running out of options, Dawn remained her defiant self.  "You think you could at least have the courtesy to come up with something original?  I mean, it's always:  "I'm going to unleash hell on earth", or "I'm going to make history…end".  After you hear it a few million times, it kind of loses the desired effect." 

The vampire didn't respond, at least verbally.  Dawn could just barely make out the creaking of the floor as the vampire closed the distance between them.  A second later, she felt its cold, lifeless hands clamp down on her shoulders, causing her to shudder involuntarily.

"You know Dawn," vamp Stacey cooed softly as she leaned in closer, her tongue flicking lightly against the girl's ear lobe, reveling in Dawn's obvious discomfort.  "Despite your attitude, I've always liked you.  I mean, _really_ liked you."  Utterly repulsed, Dawn strained against the demon's grasp, grimacing visibly, both at Stacey's admission, and at the sensation of the monster's hands sliding down her body. 

 "Mom always told me it wasn't polite to play with my food, but I just can't help myself," she lamented, tormenting Dawn with every word.  "You're so damn irresistible.  Besides, mom's worm food now, so in retrospect I guess it really doesn't matter what she said."  

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Stacey hugged Dawn's body closer to her own, her arms encircling Dawn's as her spindly fingers played slowly across Dawn's slender torso, gently massaging the young girl's skin through the thin fabric of her cotton tank top.  Her hands finally came to rest on Dawn's chest, lightly cupping the bottom of her taut breasts.  "I just can't help myself, Dawnie," Stacey confessed, fingers still busy, her thumbs tracing feather light circles around Dawn's nipples, which, much to Dawn's chagrin, stood completely erect, though whether from the chill in the air or the physical stimulation, she wasn't sure.  Either way, she was utterly mortified at the prospect.

The vampire continued her ministrations, molesting Dawn as she resumed her verbal taunts.  "You know baby, it doesn't have to be this way," she offered, her mouth moving from Dawn's ear, returning to gently nibble at the nape of her neck.  "It doesn't have to hurt at all," she purred, her hands sliding smoothly from Dawn's chest down to her hips, unclasping the buckle on her belt.  "You might even like it.  Whaddya say, Dawnie?  Wanna give me your cherry?"

Dawn let her actions speak for her.  She spun around suddenly, violently pulling away from the vampire's unnaturally strong grasp.   Facing the demon for the first time, she glared at it, an unmistakable hatred burning in her eyes.  Her voice trembled with rage as she said the words:  

"You. Are. Not. Stacey."

Stacey pursed her lips, pouting silently at Dawn.  "But I have all of her memories, sweetie.  I know how she felt – about you, about her friends, about everything.  I can taste the tears she shed as she lay drowning in a pool of her own blood, my sire still thrusting inside of her. "  She winked cruelly at Dawn, feeding the girl's agony.  "She liked it you know…the sex, the blood, the pain.  I guess a part of her wanted it.  And I have you to thank for that…Nibblet."

It was all too much for Dawn; her last shred of defiance collapsed as the horrible truth set in.  She retreated one step, then another, staggering backward to the wall as her strength left her.   She slid to the floor, tears streaming unabashedly down her cheeks.  Dawn no longer cared whether she lived or died.  At that moment, the only thing that mattered was that she'd failed her friend.  She'd failed Stacey, failed to protect her, to warn her about him, and in doing so giving her a fighting chance.  Now she was dead.  And Dawn's sole consolation was that she wouldn't have to live with the guilt, at least not for long.

Stacey wasted no time.  She advanced on Dawn quickly, eagerly anticipating her first kill.  The symbolism was just too delicious to avoid, possibly even more so than the kill itself.  After all, what better way to begin a new life than to destroy – literally – those things that bound you to the old one?  

Reaching down, she grabbed a fistful of hair, wrapping her fingers around the long curls that Dawn now sported.  With a feral growl, she yanked the listless girl to her feet, raising her to eye level.  She leaned in close to Dawn, until their faces were only inches apart, close enough to feel the girl's halting breaths on her own room-temperature skin.  Her stomach growling, Stacey hungrily eyed the tears cascading down Dawn's face, and, unable to fight the urge, reached out with her tongue, lapping at the girl's sorrow like a starving kitten.  For her part, Dawn did nothing to resist, having long since accepted her fate.

Momentarily sated, Stacey pulled back.  Garnering Dawn's undivided attention, the vampire extended her fangs, almost delirious with hunger.   Seeing the defeated expression on Dawn's face, she couldn't resist one last taunt.

"If it makes you feel any better, Dawnie, this hurts me as much as it's about to hurt you."  Without further ceremony, her head shot forward, a pair of oversized canines latching securely onto Dawn's slender neck, hungrily slurping the blood coursing through the girl's veins…

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End Chapter 12:

As always, feedback is not only appreciated, but also craved.  Sorry folks, it's an addiction, and there's no 12-step program to treat it.  So be kind and feed my habit.  

Oh, and to the little jackass that spammed me:  I don't think "StinkyStinkyStinkyStinky" qualifies as constructive criticism.  A word of advice:  Watch your ass, because I'm going to hunt you down, bitch-slap your parents, and give you a little attitude adjustment.  Honestly, kid, if I really wanted to know your opinion, I'd tell you what it was.

Until next time,

Rabid Squirrel


	13. The Dawn of a New Age

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaime__r:_ If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction? Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox, UPN, and quite possibly the U.N., sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_ All right, I confess.  I'm making this up as I go.  But we've come this far…

_Spoilers__:_ Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects. 

_Rating:_R, for violence, strong language, and limited sexual content. 

_Note:_  In previous chapters, I referred to the Summers' address as 1606 Revello.  In a recent episode of BTVS, their address was shown as 1630 Revello, which I will reference in this and all remaining chapters, unless someone informs me otherwise.

_Feedback:_ Constructive criticism, advice, and words of encouragement are all accepted, as are bribes, tributes, and human sacrifices.  All flames will be used to burn the French flag.   _Viva La France!_

_Dedication_: Here's to Saddam, Qusay, Udai, and the rest of the Baath Party boys:  Hear that sound, guys?  It's the fat lady singing.  Next stop:  Syria!

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_Words of Wisdom:_

"We will either find a way, or make one."   _Hannibal_

Chapter 13:  "The Dawn of a New Age" 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**Shady Hills Cemetery**

Monday Morning 

The funny thing about history – aside from the questionable fashion trends and frequently abused quotations (not that your humble author is guilty of that) – is mankind's almost universal inability to recognize it unfolding before their eyes.   Sunnydale residents, the law enforcement community included, were no more immune to this phenomena than others.  

In all fairness, they couldn't be blamed for that particular shortcoming.  Hindsight may well and true be 20/20, but it's always difficult to see the larger picture when you're busy slogging it out in the trenches.  Of course, the allusion to soldiers is no accident, since, for all practical purposes, that's what the majority of citizens were; proper grunts taking orders and going about their business as usual, entrusting the important decisions to those who knew better.  Or, at least to those who should know better.  That wasn't always the case, especially within the ranks of the Sunnydale PD.  But that's a matter for another time.  For the Sunnydale Police Department, there were more pressing issues at hand, even if they didn't yet know it just yet.

Parked outside the stone gates of the main entrance, a lone patrol car stood sentry, its rotating rooftop lights warning casual observers to keep their distance.  That it was unmanned was unimportant; the good people of Sunnydale knew better than to go looking for trouble.  It did well enough finding them all on its own.  

Just inside the cemetery grounds, a lieutenant detective paused outside the cordoned-off area at its westernmost extension, stymied by a persistent breeze in his attempts to light his first cigarette of the day.   He finally succeeded on the third try, cupping the small flame protectively inside his hands as he brought it to the tip of the cigarette dangling between his lips, a minor triumph that would likely go down as his only victory of the day.  The detective had been to Shady Hills on many occasions, usually shortly after sunrise – nobody in his or her right mind came here at night – and almost always for the same reason.  At least today they wouldn't have to involve the coroner.  He supposed that qualified as a victory of sorts, though not one he could rightfully claim for himself.  

He glanced reluctantly over at the small contingent of officers clustered inside the police tape, catching the eye of an overweight veteran sergeant, who in turn beckoned the lieutenant with a wave of his hand.  Dropping the half-finished cigarette into the still dewy grass, he strode over to the "crime scene" and ducked beneath the tape.

"So what's the story?" he asked perfunctorily.  After five years on the force, he had the routine down cold.

The senior patrolman gazed at him sympathetically, foregoing his usual "good morning" greeting.  There was nothing particularly good about it anyway.  

"SSDD," he informed the senior officer bluntly, without anything in the way of explanation.  

Despite his current mood, the detective couldn't suppress a grin.  _SSDD_.  The acronym had made its way into the SPD lexicon a number years before, embraced by a cynical generation of officers who had adopted the phrase as their unofficial motto.  He couldn't recall the name of the deputy who had first used the term – the officer in question had been eaten, literally, a few years back – but the man's legacy had been forever immortalized by the words spelled out on the briefing room chalkboard. 

He cast a questioning glance at his colleague.  "Another Monday morning special, huh Sarge?  So what are we calling this one…fraternity prank?"  

The sergeant dismissed that suggestion out of hand.  "Used that story last week.  This one's going down as a routine vandalism."  Of course, his declaration might have been more convincing were he not grasping a severed horn in his hand at that particular moment.  Fortunately, both men had the good sense to ignore that otherwise incongruous fact.

The sergeant tilted his head in the direction of a nearby mausoleum.  "You wanna see something interesting, Mr. Defective?  Drag your greasy ass over to that crypt and take a look inside," he advised the detective, tossing the aforementioned appendage onto a pile of similar demon paraphernalia.  "You happen to notice anything unusual?"

Muttering something about Gringos beneath his breath, the native Mexican traversed the short distance to the entrance to the vault and peered inside, spying the remains of the door and a few large piles of ash.  He shook his head.  "Aside from the fact that someone slaughtered a bunch of demons, ripped a two-hundred pound steel door from its hinges and killed a coupla' vampires?  Nope, nothing out of the ordinary here."  

"And you call yourself a detective?" the sergeant scolded his counterpart.  "Take a closer look at the door, Sherlock.  I think you might recognize the handiwork."

Kneeling down, the detective ran his hand over the surface of the mangled door.  There was a small imprint of a fist embedded in the steel, a depression that protruded clear out onto the opposite side of the 3 inch door, belying the myth that the door had been ripped from its hinges.  "Damn!" he exclaimed, whistling appreciatively.   "That's definitely our girl.  Wonder what got her so worked up?"

The sergeant shrugged.  "I don't know.  You think maybe she had a bad hair day?"

"I think she had a bad day, period.  And she's not the only one."  The detective gestured to the pile of demon corpses adjacent to the crypt.  "You get a body count yet?" 

"Hard to tell," the sergeant confessed.  "Best guess – at least a dozen.  Maybe more.  We're bagging and tagging now."

"You know how to handle this, right?"

The sergeant rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation.  "I do have some experience in the matter, Lieutenant.  You can rest assured nothing unseemly will make its way into the evidence room.  This one will be done by the book."  He didn't need to add that "by the book" took on a slightly different meaning in Sunnydale.  The first thing any new recruit learned upon joining the force – other than the fact that their 9mm sidearm wasn't the most effective weapon of choice – was to throw the conventional "book" out the first available window.  Traditional tactics and procedures were all fine and dandy when dealing with criminals of the human variety, but things tended to get a little murky when demons were thrown into the mix.

"So I can also assume that you'll be taking care of the paperwork on this?"  The detective was notorious in his disdain for the clerical aspects of the job.

 "You know what they say about assumptions?"  The sergeant wasn't particularly fond of paperwork either.  

The detective nodded, grudgingly accepting the reality of the situation.  He may have passed the buck on mopping up the crime scene, but he was still stuck with filing the report.  Not surprisingly, he'd long since learned not to cross swords with the Sergeant, rank notwithstanding.  "You know, I can remember a time when little Miss Summers cleaned up her own messes."

"You going all Norman Rockwell on me, detective?  I never pegged you as the nostalgic type."

The detective suppressed a laugh.  "Mock me all you want, but back in the day we had a system:  We pretended not to know what was going on, and she pretended not to know that we knew."

The sergeant had been around way too long to fall for that one.  "The only difference between then and now is that I've gotten older and you've gotten uglier.  Face it, my friend – you're just pissed that you have to clean up after her."  

"Actually, sergeant, _you_ have the distinct pleasure of cleaning up after our resident vampire slayer.  I'm here strictly in an advisory capacity."

The overweight officer arched a brow in mock disbelief.  "Do my ears deceive me?  Are you actually pulling rank on me, lieutenant?"

He'd thought that much was obvious.  "You bet your donut-fed ass I am.  This is your crime scene, buster.  My considerable talents are best utilized elsewhere."  

Mildly offended, the sergeant hung his head in dismay.  "So the rumors are true then  – you give a cop a gold shield, and he turns into an asshole."

His counterpart grinned wickedly, his appearance not dissimilar to that of your common weasel – who, truth be known, had gotten a bad rap over the years.  "That's where you're wrong, old man:  I was an asshole long before I ever made detective."  

The sergeant's witty retort was drowned out by the sound of the detective's cell phone trilling, the customary ring replaced by a badly rendered electronic version of the "Cops" theme song.  The detective reached into his suit jacket, pulling out and unfolding the small unit in one smooth motion.  "Martinez," he answered curtly.  He quickly fell silent, ostensibly listening to whomever was on the other end.  Judging by the look on the detective's face, the news was not good.  After a minute or two, he mumbled an incoherent goodbye and flipped the phone shut, unceremoniously stuffing it back into his coat pocket.

"Bad news?" the sergeant inquired, his curiosity getting the best of him.

The detective affixed him with a tired gaze, looking every bit of his 42 years.  

"Same shit, different day."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**1216 Crawford Street**

That same time 

Whoever said that your life flashed before your eyes as your were dying was full of shit.  Ditto for that whole "white light" song and dance.  Dying was dying, as far as Dawn Summers was concerned, and at this very moment she was getting a little first hand experience in that arena.

What surprised her the most, aside from the incomprehensible fact that she was actually going to die, was that it didn't hurt, at least not in the physical sense of the word.  In all honesty, it was almost a pleasurable experience, a ubiquitous sensation of pseudo-euphoria tinged with just a touch of sexual release.  But then again, that may have just been the blood loss speaking.  At this point it was hard to tell.

As Stacy continued to feed on Dawn, the blood loss quickly began to take its toll.  Deprived of oxygen by the decreased blood flow, her brain reacted automatically, sacrificing Dawn's sensory perception in the most rudimentary act of self-preservation.  Of course, Dawn knew nothing of this.  She knew only that her eyesight was failing her, her field of view blurring and tunneling until she could barely make out the figure sucking the life from her.  As she began to lose her purchase on reality, Dawn could almost swear she saw something else, a vaguely human-shaped figure looming large in front of her.  And then everything went dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**1630 Revello Drive**

Sunnydale 

It was all a lie, really. 

 In the commercials, the laundry detergent could handle anything.  Grass stains?  Step on up!  Red wine spots?  No problem.  Caked on mud?  Puh-lease!  How about a real challenge?  

All-temperature bleach…meet your match.

She'd been generous with the detergent, dumping fully half the bottle into the aging Kenmore in a vain attempt to restore her favorite tank top to its original color.  As it turned out, the folks on Madison Avenue had a lot of explaining to do.

"Stain fighter my ass," she mumbled, slamming the metal lid closed.

Her clothing had emerged from the washing machine in much the same condition as it had gone in – dripping wet and covered in demon goo of an indeterminate nature.  Which, combined with the current status of her personal life, did little to improve Buffy's already foul mood.  So much for starting the week on a positive note.

She hadn't meant to be out all night.  The plan was to patrol for a few hours, kill a few (dozen?) bad guys, and make it home in time for Letterman…or at least Kilbourne, whom she didn't even like that much.  Of course, that plan, like most others she made, had not survived first contact with the enemy.  _What was that they said about the best-laid plans of mice and men?  _

She'd simply lost track of time, or, at least, that's what she told herself lately, even if the excuse was starting to wear thin.  The plain and simple truth was that she couldn't stop.  It wasn't enough anymore to kill jus two or three vampires on a given night, or even to eradicate the occasional nest; she wanted to kill them all.  Now.

_And that wasn't such a bad thing…was it?_  It was her calling after all.  She killed vampires, demons, and the occasional Hellgod.  That's what Slayers did; at least until they died, or in her case, even after they died.  But until someone else came along, it was her responsibility, and hers alone.  Besides, each one of the bastards she killed meant that someone would live to see another day.  So what if she didn't get paid?  Knowing the good she did made it all worthwhile.

But still…

There was something about her situation that was vaguely disturbing.  Buffy had always been obstinate and willful in her own right (those were Gile's words, not hers), a fact she prided herself on.  She'd never let her birthright define who she was.  But lately she'd felt as if she were no longer in control, like there was some unseen force dictating the events of her life.  And as much as she hated being a spectator in her own life story, a part of her was content to let that happen.  That, more than anything else, told her that something was wrong.

She tried to deal with it, to maintain some semblance of normalcy in her life, a goal she'd never quite succeeded in attaining, but nonetheless one she continued to strive for, even if the cards were stacked against her.  God forbid, she'd even tried the whole personal introspection routine, but hadn't found any answers there, either.  Buffy knew it was time to tell the others, and come hell or high water (probably the former, given they were in California), she intended to do just that.  She'd talk to Giles and the rest of the gang tonight, including Dawn, who, with the loss of Tara and Anya's de-facto defection, had deftly succeeded in maneuvering her way into the remnants of the Scooby gang.   

Dawn was another story.  As concerned as she was about her own present state of affairs, Buffy was even more worried about her younger sister.  She could see it happening right before her eyes, could sense the changes Dawn was going through.  The less Buffy began to resemble her former self, the more her sister began to fill that role.  It didn't take any giant leap of faith to come to the logical conclusion:  Dawn was becoming her.  And that downright scared Buffy.

She hadn't said anything to Dawn, but it was obvious the younger Summers wasn't totally oblivious to what was happening.  She had to know something was going on, had probably suspected something for quite a while now.   It was only a matter of time.

She'd recently told Dawn she didn't want to protect her from the world; that she wanted to share it with her.  In reality, it was only a half-truth, even if the intent had been true.  Buffy did want to include Dawn, to give her the chance to chart her own destiny on her own terms.   But try as she may, Buffy couldn't reconcile her newfound intentions with her instinctual imperative to protect her younger sister at all costs.  And as soon as Dawn knew the real truth, as soon as her powers had completely manifested, Buffy knew without a doubt that all bets would be off.  Protecting Dawn would be impossible at that point.

And still, she'd resolved to do everything thing within her power to provide Dawn with as ordinary a life as possible, even if her definition of "ordinary" didn't exactly approximate that of the rest of the world.  Dawn _would_ graduate high school, _would_ go to college, and _would_ have a career that didn't involve graveyards and pointy objects, even if Buffy had to force her at gunpoint.  Fortunately, there were plenty of pawnshops in Sunnydale.

Tossing her ruined shirt into the wastebasket, Buffy closed yet another chapter in her life – that of the color coordinated ensemble.  No more white, no more pastels for this girl.  From here on out it was either black or earth tones, and anything the color of blood.  While money was no longer a pressing issue, it was just too emotionally straining to watch her entire wardrobe die off piece-by-piece.  After all, you could take the Slayer out of the girl, but you couldn't take the girl out of the Slayer.

Turning on her heel, Buffy left the utility room, and along with it the ghosts of her wardrobe.  She strolled into the kitchen, in search of breakfast and a comfortable chair.  She couldn't know that she would find neither.

Just as she reached the refrigerator, and with it the promise of bacon and eggs, the wall-mounted telephone sprung to life, postponing her culinary bliss.

"_Who the hell could it be at this hour?" _she wondered.  Dawn was at school, Xander at work, and she sincerely doubted that Willow would brave calling her this early.  By process of elimination that left only Giles.  Leave it to a Brit to call before nine o'clock. 

 She picked up on the fourth ring, fully expecting to hear the Watcher's voice on the other end.

"Hello, Summers' residence."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Earlier 

As it turned out, there was a blinding white light after all.  In fact, there were many of them.

She could feel them more than she could see them – intermittent arcs of brilliant white light flashing by overhead, drifting just beyond her reach.  And though she couldn't see much of anything, Dawn had the uneasy sensation that she was floating on air, her body propelled forward by some unseen force.  Likewise, she could hear little, though all around her she could barely make out muffled sounds, strangely disembodied voices calling out her name, beckoning her forward to some unknown destination.  

Dawn had never been a particularly religious person.  The closest she ever came to organized religion was the fantasy football league she'd joined last year, and even that had been done only to gain the attention of a certain upperclassman.  That wasn't to say she didn't believe in the man upstairs, or Heaven and Hell for that matter.  After all, Buffy had been there and done that.  It was just that she didn't have a lot of use for religion.  She had enough strife in her life.  Why would she willingly want to add more?

Still, to hedge her bets, she did say the occasional prayer to whoever might be listening, whether it be God, Allah, Buddha, or some other mass-marketed deity.  And it wasn't as though she'd led an immoral life.  Sure, there was that little klepto phase she'd gone through, the rare (but increasingly more frequent) profanity, and the occasional impure thought.  But thinking something wasn't the same as doing it, was it?  

Right now, Dawn wasn't sure.  But of one thing she was fairly certain:  Dawn Summers was no longer among the living; she was, in drawn out terms – stick-a-fork-in-me, shoot me, stuff me, mount me, pushing up daisies – dead.  Of what that meant in practical terms she was slightly less certain.  

She didn't think she was in Hell.  After all, Hell meant fire and brimstone and eternal torment – the whole nine yards.  At least that's what the televangelists said, and if you couldn't trust them, whom could you trust? Thankfully, Dawn hadn't experienced any of that, though she could have sworn that her ears had picked up a few strains of elevator music at one point, which, she feared, did not speak well for her current situation. 

On the other hand, Dawn was equally doubtful that she was in Heaven.  From what little Buffy had told Dawn of her experience there, the younger Summers had ascertained that Heaven was indeed a very warm and fuzzy place.  Not at all like the place she found herself in at the present, which was – pardon the pun – colder than hell.

Which then left her with option C:  Purgatory.  It wasn't exactly a comforting thought, but neither was it entirely bad, except perhaps for the motion sickness she was enduring at this point.  At least she wasn't in any pain.  And who knew?  Maybe she'd get lucky and Willow would bring her back.  She'd done it for Buffy.  Why couldn't she do it again?  Until then, she'd just have to bide her time.

And so she found herself relegated to seeking out the mysterious lights once more, searching for something to pass the time.  The task might have been easier were her eyes not shut, but then, Dawn wasn't even aware that she had them closed.   Of course, had they been open, not only would she have seen the lights, but she likely would have seen something infinitely more interesting:

Directly above her – resplendent in its all neon glory – was a simple sign:

 -- Operating Room #1 -- 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

End Chapter 13.  To those of you following this story, I apologize for not posting sooner.  All blame lies squarely with my muse:  She's a fickle bitch.

Chapter 14 should be up shortly.  Look for the conspiracy to unfold further, Buffy to make a new friend (sort of), some surprise revelations regarding Dawn, and a traitor close to the Slayer.

Until next time,

Rabid Squirrel


	14. A Lighter Shade of Gray

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaime__r:_ If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction? Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox, UPN, and quite possibly the U.N., sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_ I have no idea where this is going.  I just write what the Rice Krispies tell me to.

_Spoilers__:_ Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects. 

_Rating:_R, for violence, strong language, and limited sexual content. 

_Feedback:_ Constructive criticism, advice, and words of encouragement are all accepted, as are bribes, tributes, and human sacrifices.  Flames will be used to light my cigarettes.

_Dedication_: To Lou, the poor bastard, on the occasion of his wedding day.  It was nice knowing you these past 23 years, my friend.

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_Words of Wisdom:_

I worked hard, I stayed the course, and I finally beat the odds.  Unfortunately, the little bastards regrouped, formed a coalition and came back to kick my ass – Rabid Squirrel

**Chapter 14:  "A Lighter Shade of Gray"**

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**Xander's Apartment**

**Monday Morning**

**0900 Hrs**

Willow Rosenberg had entertained a number of doubts her life.  At varying times she'd doubted her intrinsic worth as a human being; doubted the durability of her friendships; doubted her ability to overcome her addiction to magic; and ultimately, doubted her resilience in the aftermath of the events of last spring.  But never before had she doubted the purity of the intentions of one Alexander Lavelle Harris.

To say that she was disturbed by the recent turn of events was a gross understatement.  The revelations of the previous night, though vague in their own right, had nonetheless succeeded in shaking her to the very core, leading her to question the loyalty of the one person she had grown to trust implicitly.  And as much as she'd tried to rationalize what she'd heard, to convince herself not to rush to judgment before she knew the whole story, she found it impossible to give her friend the benefit of the doubt.

As it turned out, Willow was familiar with the name, if not the individual it belonged to.  Over the years she and Buffy had spent many a night commiserating over Rocky Road ice cream and [eventually] a bottle of Chardonnay, bemoaning their mutual failures at both life and love, and anything else they might have managed to screw up.  During one such session – not long after the whole situation with Angel/Angelus had played itself out – Buffy had related to Willow the role the balance demon had played in the whole affair, tossing in a few colorful epithets to express her patent dislike for Whistler.  And while Willow knew what it was like to be misunderstood and prematurely judged, something told her that knowing the complete story would do very little to attenuate her growing concerns about Xander's apparent involvement with the mysterious Whistler.

That she even knew of Xander's alleged duplicity was somewhat of an accident.  She'd been sleeping in the spare bedroom Sunday night, awakened sometime after midnight by the sound of the front door opening.  Assuming that it was just Xander, she'd laid her head back down, intending to fall asleep.  It was only after hearing the door open a second time that her curiosity got the best of her. 

 Slipping from her bed, she'd crept quietly to the door, straining to hear what was being said on the other side.  In retrospect, she wished she hadn't.

Eavesdropping on the conversation outside the door, she'd immediately recognized one voice as belonging to Xander; the other was heretofore unknown to her.  As luck would have it, Xander had unwittingly provided that bit of information, calling the other man by name.  Evidently, like Buffy, Xander obviously had no love lost for the infamous balance demon.  Of course, there was still the little matter of a certain promise that Whistler had mentioned, the root cause of Willow's current predicament:

_"Until then you keep your promise. You keep an eye on her; you prepare her for what's to come."_

The first part of Whistler's statement was fairly innocuous, even typical of Xander, if late night rendezvous with questionable demons could be considered typical.  It was the latter part of the statement that left a foul taste in Willow's mouth, and left her wondering just what her best friend had gotten himself into: _Exactly what was coming, and how was Xander supposed to prepare her for it?  _She needed answers to those questions.

It wasn't easy for her to consider the possibility that Xander was playing both sides, or even to entertain the notion that Xander could possibly have ulterior motives.  After everything they'd been through, after all the hardships they'd faced, Xander had apparently done the one thing they'd all sworn never again to do – to keep secrets from the others.  And to make matters worse, this one evidently involved Buffy.

Of course, it was all relative.

To judge Xander for keeping secrets could be construed as hypocrisy on her part, given the magnitude of the secret she'd been keeping for the past several months.  Though, in her own defense, the secret she carried didn't involve any overt treachery or secret liaisons on her part.  It was more a secret of omission than one of commission.  That still didn't make it any easier to hide from her friends.

She hadn't wanted to believe it at first.  The very fact that Buffy was again among the living had been a testament to her own powers and abilities as a Wicca.  But the doubt had always been there, that little nagging voice inside her head telling Willow that it wasn't her – that she hadn't been the one who brought the Slayer back.  There was ample evidence to support that version, after all.  During the ritual, the sacred circle had been prematurely broken, due in no small part to their uninvited guests.  There was also the incontrovertible fact that the Urn of Osiris had been destroyed before she had time to complete the spell.  Both of these things had militated against the apparent likelihood of her success.

But still…

Buffy had risen from the grave, and the timing of her resurrection was far too convenient to be interpreted as mere coincidence.  The fact that Spike could hurt Buffy even seemed to bolster the pro-Willow version of events, suggesting that Buffy had come back wrong, a logical side effect stemming from the complications that had arisen during the performing of the ritual.  That explanation would have sufficed for most people.  But then again, Willow wasn't most people.

Willow was by nature a creature of habit, the foremost of which was her insatiable, if sometimes reckless, thirst for knowledge.  One way or another, Willow had to know the truth.  And so with a lot of determination, a little research, and just a smidgeon of magic, she'd set out to find it.

And find the truth she had, in the process confirming her own worst fears.  As it turned out, she hadn't brought Buffy back, at least not all of her.  What Willow had failed to realize in her single-minded pursuit to bring back her friend was that that no power on earth, either natural or otherwise, had dominion over the soul once it had passed beyond the ethereal plane.  It was well within her power to bring Buffy's mortal body back to life, but what came back wouldn't have been Buffy; only a hollow shell, a walking corpse devoid of the essence of the person who had once occupied it.  And though that fact had clearly delineated the outer limit of her abilities, it also had one positive, if unintended, effect.  It showed her that somewhere out there, there was someone – or something – that held sway even over the power of death.  And if that power had brought Buffy back, then it couldn't possibly be evil.

Or could it?

She needed to talk to someone.  That much was obvious.  The question was who.  She couldn't exactly approach Buffy with what she knew – or in this case didn't know.  Throwing gasoline on the fire probably wasn't a wise approach at this point and time.  Likewise, directly confronting Xander was unlikely to yield the desired results.  Which left her with Giles; that was a can of worms she wasn't sure she was ready to open.  But then again, what choice did she really have?

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**Sunnydale Memorial Hospital**

0930 Hrs 

If there was a hell, Xander Harris had decided during the course of the last half hour, it most likely bore a strong resemblance to the SMH Emergency Room.  

As waiting rooms went, it was pretty much standard issue:  Run-of-the-mill late eighties utilitarian decor capped off with a touch of Department-of-Motor-Vehicle ambience.  The walls had probably once been white, but they'd long since faded to a dingy aged yellow, save for those areas covered with garage sale castoffs and cheap Norman-Rockwell prints.  Where the wall met the floor, ranks of uniformly uncomfortable plastic chairs ringed the reception area, one of which Xander had planted himself in while he filled out the endless array of insurance forms.   He wasn't quite sure, but he thought the chair might have been blue at some point in time.

And while the comforts of the waiting room were decidedly sub par, the smell was something else entirely.  An overpowering antiseptic odor permeated the air, mixing with the unmistakable thick scent of blood.   Both were currently doing quite a number on his digestive tract, threatening to introduce the contents of his stomach to the crudely polished tile floor.  

It went without saying that he'd always hated the place, and not without good reason.  At one point or another in his life, every woman he'd cared about had ended up here, a list that included Willow, Buffy, Cordelia, Anya, Joyce, and now Dawn, the latest addition to the undesirable club.  And while he knew he wasn't directly to blame for any of them, it didn't make the reality of the situation any easier to accept.

Xander didn't know why Dawn had left the purse in his car.  He didn't believe it was even physically possible for the female persuasion to ever part with such a crucial accessory.  But left it here she had, and for that reason she was still alive. 

 At least, he prayed she still was.

**_40 Minutes Earlier:_**

****

The front door had been a dead giveaway.  As he pulled up to the driveway, he almost failed to notice the indisputable fact that it was standing ajar, but in Sunnydale, some signs are just too obvious to miss, especially in broad daylight.  It was possible that someone had accidentally left it open, but Xander was a man who dealt in what he knew, and right now he knew only that he had a bad feeling about this.  

Alert to the possible danger, he plunged his hand into the oversized pocket of his flannel shirt, frenziedly searching for a weapon that wasn't there.  In desperation, he turned to the purse lying on the passenger seat, leery of what he might find inside, but willing to take that chance for Dawn's sake.  Rooting around inside the leather handbag, he hastily curled his fingers around a small cylindrical object, only to release it just as quickly when he realized what he actually held in his grasp.  As a general rule, tampons didn't make for effective weapons, at least not against demons, and generally, though not always, against humans.__

Resuming his tactile search, Xander felt the reassuring sensation of wood grain brush against his fingertips.  He snatched the undersized wooden weapon from its hiding place, tucking it into his shirt pocket as he slammed the truck door shut and dashed toward the house.  

He slowed his approach as he neared the door, resisting the urge to charge in, much in the style of John Wayne.  That method tended to work only in the movies; it still didn't stop him from packing heat.  And so, with one hand resting on the butt of  "Smokey" – Xander's nickname for his trusty .45 – and the other fingering the stake concealed inside his pocket, he cautiously crept up the doorstep, leaning slightly to the right in order to peer through the gap between the partially open door and the frame.  Seeing nothing of interest, he proceeded to nudge the door slightly with his foot, sidestepping to the left and out of the line-of-sight of whomever or whatever might be waiting for him inside.

The door swung inward, followed in due course by the rays of the mid-morning sun, clearing a vampire-free zone for his safe passage.  Xander slowly stepped inside, the stake now clenched firmly in his left hand, both residing in his pocket.  He glanced around the room anxiously, straining to pick up any stray sounds, but he could scarcely hear a thing over the pounding of his heart.

_Relax, Xandman.  Take a deep breath.  It's not like you haven't done this before.  _

Despite his frequent protestations to the contrary, Xander wasn't beneath arguing with himself.  _Actually, it is like I haven't done this before, because I haven't.  _Sometimes his inner self could be quite unreasonable.

But not always.  _Ah, c'mon.  Buck up X-man.  You're the White Knight.  This is what you do._

_No it's not!  I'm not the hero – I'm the sidekick.  The one who always seems to end up with the magic syphilis._

_Ahhh – the magic syphilis; you've got me there.  But even sidekicks get to kick a little ass every now and then.  And at least you don't have to wear those gay tights._

Xander couldn't argue with himself on that point:  Tights were gay; really, really gay.  Unfortunately, his lingering doubts were not assuaged by that simplistic argument.  

_This is crazy.  I don't even know who or what is in here.  I have no idea what I'm up against, or what I'm walking in to._

His inner self remained firm in his resolve.  _You're blowin' this way out of proportion buddy.  For all you know, it could just be the UPS man.  And if it's not, then you've got mister Sam Colt and his little wooden friend to even the odds.  So get your ass in gear, saddle up the white horse, put on your shining armor, and ride in and save the day.  _

In the end, it was just that simple.  Emboldened, Xander stepped into the living room, at first hesitantly, but his confidence and determination building with each step.  Drawing the .45, he held it out in front of him, treating the firearm as a natural extension or his body.  

One step.  Then two.  Then another.  His heart rate was still elevated, but he'd managed to bring it under control, through his breathing and by sheer force of will.  He was focused now; he had a mission.  Not quite a soldier, yet not just a feeble sidekick.  The White Knight rode again.   _Yippie-ki-yay_.

Onward to the kitchen he crept.  He inspected the room methodically, his every move an example of ergonomic efficiency, always leading with the colt.  Here he found nothing.  Xander inched through the kitchen, moving toward the back of the house.  Slowly yet steadily he made his way, turning around every few steps to check behind him, ever cognizant of the danger.  Now the stake came out, still gripped firmly in his left hand.  _Two to the head, stake to the heart, _he reassured himself.  _That's all it takes._

Finally he heard them, the muffled voices drifting down from the upper floor, their words unintelligible to him.  Both were female; one voice Dawn's, the other familiar, possibly Stacey's.  He reached the stairs, ascending them now one at a time, careful to place his footfalls on the outer edge of each step, lest he betray his presence with an ill-timed creak.

He hadn't forgotten it all…the training that is.  Whatever knowledge and ability he'd gleaned from Ethan's little Halloween escapade years before had largely stuck with him, collecting dust somewhere in the reaches of his underutilized mind.  He'd only tapped into that knowledge sporadically, ambivalent about using a power that originated in darkness, mindful of Willow's lessons.  But lately that had all changed.  He found himself remembering more and more of his "training", the tactics and ingrained instincts slipping unobtrusively into his everyday life.  At first it had scared him, but he'd gradually come to accept it with a level of serenity that would have at one time disturbed him.  But not now.  Not anymore.

He reached the top of the staircase.  The sounds were louder now, the voices more defined…and someone was crying, someone who sounded remarkably like Dawn.  Xander moved closer, focused intently on the closed door directly ahead.  As he approached the room, his grip on the Colt tightened involuntarily, his index finger reflexively seeking out the trigger.  _Easy Xander.  Don't lose your cool now. _ 

Finally, he was at the door, his left hand hovering above the handle when the realization set in.  The voice on the other side of the door was Stacey's, but it was wrong, unnaturally guttural, devoid of humanity: 

 "If it makes you feel any better, Dawnie, this hurts me as much as it's about to hurt you."

His hand came down on the handle, unlatching the door and allowing it to swing wide, confirming for Xander's eyes what his ears had already told him:  Stacey was a vampire, and Dawn her intended meal.  But Xander was already moving, his body acting on instinct, quickly closing the gap between him and Stacey.  The Colt came up, its gleaming steel barrel leveled at the vampire's head, sizing up a shot that would never come.

Caught amidst the throes of the thirst, Stacey almost hadn't noticed him.  It was only through her enhanced hearing that she was alerted to his presence.  Disengaging from her meal, she dropped Dawn's listless body to the floor, turning with a preternatural speed to meet the unknown threat.  As she spun around to engage her attacker, the glint of polished metal caught her eye, drawing her attention away from the more lethal threat.  She continued to pivot, her left hand striking out at the assailant's weapon, easily batting away the gun.  For good measure, she followed up with her right hand, delivering a lightning-quick palm-thrust to the assailant's unprotected temple, sending Dawn's would-be savior reeling to the floor.                

In Xander's defense, he had never intended to fire a shot.  The risk was simply too great, given the close proximity of Dawn to his intended target.  Collateral damage simply wasn't a term in the White Knight's vocabulary.  The gun had succeeded, however, in drawing Stacey's attention away from the true threat.  As Stacey lashed out at his gun hand, Xander countered with a left-handed thrust, delivering one decisive blow before he was knocked senseless by her counterattack.  From Xander's vantage point on the floor, and through slightly hazy eyes – the bitch did pack quite a punch – her could clearly see the small wooden stake neatly protruding from the center of the vampire's chest, at least for the two seconds before she collapsed into a pile of dust.

**_Present Time:_**

****

He had to call Buffy.  Instinctively he knew that; it's what civilized people did in a situation like this.  But how do you tell someone that the one person they love most in all the world was either dead, or very nearly so, and that you hadn't been there to prevent it?  He couldn't do it, at lest not until he knew, one way or another.  And so he'd waited, putting off calling Buffy in the hopes that everything would turn out okay.   That was largely up to the doctors, who were with her at this moment, doing their best to help her.  He just hoped that their best would be enough.

Xander wanted to be in there with her, to hold her hand and tell her everything would be okay, even if it was only a well-intentioned lie.  But even as he hoped for the best, he feared the worst.  By the time he'd finally gotten to her, she had stopped breathing, her skin turning a deathly shade of white.  He'd tried CPR; done the chest compressions, performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, just as he'd learned in school, but he wasn't sure it had been in time.   

So now he sat here in the waiting room, with only his thoughts and the ticking of the oversized analog wall clock to keep him company.  It was strange how time could seem to move so slowly, a realization that had first occurred to him on the ride over, and was now reinforced with the passage of each agonizing second.  He glanced at the clock again, not surprised to find only five minutes had passed since he'd last checked.

Tick…Tock.  Another second, another thought.

He remembered what Buffy had once told them about her vision quest.  And it occurred to him that while death may indeed have been Buffy's gift to the world, it was his burden to bear, his constant companion in life.  He'd lost so much – Jesse, Joyce, Buffy, and now, quite possibly Dawn.  And thanks to his little deal with Whistler, he knew there was more to come, and whom it was coming to.__

_If only I'd never taken that goddamned road trip to Oxnard.  _

It was a question he'd asked himself time and again, ever since that fateful summer years before:  Would he have done things differently, had he not known?  Would he have had the strength to sacrifice Dawn's life to save the world, knowing what Buffy would have done to him if he had?  Thoughts like these plagued his waking moments, and more often than not, intruded upon his dreams as well.  It was enough to drive a person mad, though at this point that would have been a relatively short trip, given his current state of mind.

Xander looked up again, occasioning yet another pointless glance at the clock.  His gaze, however, fell elsewhere.  

At that precise moment the doors to the operating room swung open, dispatching the ER doctor who'd been attending to Dawn.  Xander caught the man's eye, tracking him as he walked down the hall, approaching the waiting room at an agonizingly slow pace.  He couldn't get a read on the man, as the doc's face was largely covered with a sanitary mask.  

Xander stood slowly, taking a few halting steps toward the approaching M.D., steeling himself for the inevitable.  __

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SoCal Industrial Park 

**Outskirts of Sunnydale**

As it turned out, not everybody in Sunnydale was having a bad day.

Lilah Morgan reclined in the custom-made leather chair, her outstretched legs crossed atop the polished oak desk as she puffed triumphantly on a cigar.   It was uncharacteristically ostentatious of her, and likely more than a little presumptuous on her part, but she just couldn't help herself.  

So far everything had gone off without a hitch.  Sure, there may have been a slight hiccup or two along the way, most notably the little incident at W&H that had taken the lives of more than a few of her colleagues, but Lilah was focused on the larger picture, and though problematic, such tactical setbacks were to be expected.  And if it took a few human lives for the overall plan to succeed, then who was she to object?  It wasn't as if she had a soul to torment her.

Actually, that wasn't entirely true.  There was a soul plaguing her, dogging her every move.  It just didn't happen to be hers.  Somewhere out there, undoubtedly closer than she would like, the world's oldest do-gooder was lurking in the shadows, waiting for just the right moment to jump in and royally fuck up her plans.   He'd made it his passion in life to do just that, and Lilah had no doubt that the souled vampire would be making a guest appearance sometime soon.

And then of course, there was the Slayer.

Buffy Ann Summers – one hundred and six pounds of pure pain-in-the-ass vampire Slayer.  At only 22 years of age, the diminutive champion had managed to forestall the end of the world on no fewer than six occasions, at least according to Wolfram & Hart's sources.  Of course, it went without saying that Lilah fully intended to prevent a seventh such occurrence.   The question was how to go about it.

Her orders had been perfectly clear in their intent, while still allowing her a wide degree of latitude in her course of action:  Eliminate the Slayer, whatever the cost.  Not surprisingly, while the Senior Partners at W&H still entertained fantasies about bringing Angel over to their side, they had never held any such illusions regarding the Slayer.  And so Donofrio had relayed their wishes to his most trusted subordinate, supremely confident in her ability to execute them forthwith.  Which is just what she intended to do, albeit in a style and manner all her own.

The solution had, quite literally, prevented itself to her, escorted by no fewer than a half dozen of her most trusted security agents.  It was an inspired plan, simple yet bold, with just a dash of irony thrown in for her own personal amusement.  That the scheme was also patently cruel was not by any intelligent design, but instead merely a happy coincidence born out of the practicality of its nature.

No one had ever accused Lilah of incompetence, at least no one currently among the ranks of the living.  The one lesson she had learned early on, the lesson she had lived by for the past eight years, was to always have a contingency plan.   _Always cover your ass, _her first supervisor at W&H had told her, and Lilah had taken that lesson to heart.  Which lead her to this point.

The first part of the plan was predictable, if ultimately futile.  But then, that was what she was counting on.  It was the follow-up to the initial phase, the counterstroke to her _maskirovka_ that was pure genius in its audacity.   In the simplest terms, it was the magician's special:  A textbook case of misdirection.  Lilah would present an obvious threat to the Slayer, albeit one miss Summers couldn't afford to ignore.  While Buffy was busy looking in the wrong direction, countering what she perceived as the primary threat, the real sleight of hand would occur.  As the Slayer was preoccupied with countering the initial attack, the follow-on assault would be unleashed, utilizing a threat axis inconceivable to Buffy and her friends.  The Slayer would be caught looking to the outside in search of danger, when in reality the true danger would be coming from within.

And of course, Lilah knew just the man for the job.  

It was a simple choice, to be honest.  The assassin had to be someone with access to the Slayer, someone whose presence wouldn't be questioned, at least not for the right reasons.  Ideally, he would also be someone with a strong emotional or physical bond to Buffy Summers, someone who she at once both hated and loved.  In Lilah's experience, people were at their most vulnerable when emotionally unbalanced, especially the women.  All available data on the Slayer only confirmed that belief, and so Lilah intended to play that card for all it was worth.

The nature of the chosen individual's relationship to the Slayer had given Lilah momentary pause.  After all, the man had been an integral part of the Slayer's life for a number of years, exerting considerable influence over her.  Undoubtedly, he still entertained feelings for her, even if the two were currently estranged.  Not surprisingly, all of this had led the ethically challenged lawyer to question whether the man could be counted on to complete the task when the time came.  But Lilah, as always, had an ace in the hole.  She knew which strings to pull and which threats to employ in order to make him come around to her way of thinking.  And though it had taken quite a bit of "persuasion" on her end, Lilah was eminently confident that he would do as he was told. 

 At which point his usefulness to her would cease, and with it, his life.

With that thought, Lilah looked up to her visitor, who'd been waiting quietly up until this point.

"So you're William the Bloody?" 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The Home of Rupert Giles**

That Same Time 

It was kind of like doing a jigsaw puzzle, albeit upside down, blindfolded, and with half of the pieces missing.

The problem, as always, was that Rupert Giles didn't see the big picture.  At present he only had disjointed bits of information, pieces of a puzzle whose parts didn't readily fit together.  But Rupert wasn't a man given to believe in coincidence, or surrender for that matter.  He was by nature both paranoid and relentlessly thorough, qualities befitting a man of his station in life.  He had no choice but to make the pieces fit.

He didn't have a lot to go on at this point.  The bulk of the information he did have had come in the form of an ancient text, a mythical book alleged to contain startling truths about the origins of mankind, as well as predictions regarding its future.  It wasn't even supposed to exist, if you believed the historians and academicians; but then again, vampires weren't supposed to exist either.  

He'd read the book – whose name translated loosely into "where everything becomes visible" – from cover to cover, skimming briefly over the history of mankind as he sought to unearth its future, or its possible lack thereof.  There were sections he could not translate, passages transcribed in some dialect of Attic Greek unknown to him.  But that wasn't what bothered him the most.

Mark Twain had once written:  "_It ain't those parts of the Bible that I can't understand that bother me, it's the parts that I do understand_."   Knowing what he now knew, Giles could sympathize with the man.  Since the book had first come into his possession, he'd spent every waking moment poring over its pages, laboriously copying the translated text into his own journals.  Those relatively few parts he could decipher had given him pause, though not enough to keep him from completing the task, with the exception of one particular passage.  

For maybe the thousandth time that morning, Giles rechecked what he had written, hoping against hope that he'd made an error somewhere in the translation.  But as many times as he read the words, they always came out the same:

-- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_It will come to pass in the age of man_. _The opening days_ of _the third millennia will bring forth the union of humanity with the ethereal host.  At the sounding of the trumpet, they will stand as one, wielding the sword of righteousness, arrayed against the multitude of the Fallen at the coming of the second Great War.  _

_And in this time, the many races of man will come together to oppose the accursed horde, unleashing their terrible devices of war in the West of the known world, setting the heavens aflame, and turning the great waters to blood.  The world shall fall into eternal darkness, and the shadows will hold sway over all.  _

_ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - _

Okay, so it wasn't exactly Charles Dickens, but few real prophecies ever were.  As Buffy would no doubt have said, it was a bit heavy on the "dire", as apocalyptic predictions often tended to be.  Of course, absent the dire, prophecies were really little more than glorified horoscopes – big on generalization, lacking in useful specifics.  That's where being a Watcher came in handy.

Giles skimmed ahead a bit, thumbing impatiently through the faded manuscript, unable to make heads or tails of the passages that followed, though he had succeeded in deciphering the occasional odd phrase.  There was some mention of a "catalyst" in the more obscure passages, a trigger of some sort that would either precipitate or facilitate the arrival of what the text referred to as the "fallen", depending on how you interpreted the context of the passage.  Just who or what these fallen were was open to interpretation, though to Giles it seemed altogether likely that they were demonic in nature, quite possibly some sub-species of vampire, or something even worse.

There were other references as well, equally obscure in nature, if disproportionate in their relevance.  Along with the "catalyst", the text also made fleeting reference to one known as "the Unforgiven", presumably someone (or something) who had fallen from favor.  From whose favor, Giles wasn't sure, but the pseudo-religious undertones of the text were evident, even to the most ardent atheist.  The style of writing, though slightly less elegant and marginally more direct, bore a strong resemblance to ancient Hebrew and Aramaic religious texts, providing an indirect answer to a few of the more obvious questions, but raising even more in the process.

Giles did have some background in religious studies; it had been a requirement at the Watcher's Academy that all students have at least a basic indoctrination in religious studies.  And so he had some idea of what was inferred by the "Second Great War".   That wasn't necessarily a good thing, but neither was the revelation that followed next.

_- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -_

_When the day is upon us, the hope of all mankind shall lie with the chosen one; for the twice-blessed champion shall lead the charge against the enemy of man, engaging his armies at the mouth of hell.  And before the plains of Elysium the champion will fall, betrayed by those she would call friend, struck down by agents of the First True Evil._

_- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  - - -  - - - - - - - - - - - -  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  - - - - - - - - _

Those several sentences had occasioned more than a few "Dear Gods" on Giles' part, as well as an overly vigorous cleaning of his glasses.  He'd been here before, on more than one occasion.  That still didn't make it any easier this time around.  The truth was right in front of him, as clear as anything written in ancient Greek could be.  

After all, how many "twice-blessed" champions did he know?  

_- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  - - - - -  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -_

_But at the hour when all seems lost, from the ashes of the fallen warrior shall spring forth new hope; out of the funereal pyre a new champion shall be born unto this world, one conceived of man, graced with divine favor, and resurrected as flesh.  She will be called Elisheba, the protector of man, and with her, the line of the chosen shall pass into the new age._

_- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - _

"My God…" Giles uttered, stunned by the revelation contained within the last line.  I take back everything I've ever said about prophecies being ambiguous.  He'd seen prophecies that referred to the "Slayer" in his time, but never this explicitly, calling one out by name:  Elisheba, the Greek forerunner of the English Elisabeta, or Elizabeth.  As in Elizabeth Ann Summers.

This is what Antonio had tried to warn him about.  Remember your Religion, Rupert.  It will serve you well.  The answers were right in front of him:  The First True Evil; the Fallen; the Ethereal Host; the Second Great War; the resurrection of a champion.  The big picture was beginning to come together, and Rupert W. Giles didn't like what he saw.   Not one damn bit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunnydale Memorial Hospital 

Xander counted three rings, then a fourth as he strummed his fingers nervously on the bedside table.  All things considered, he'd rather be the one lying in the hospital bed right about now.  At least he'd get some jell-o.

"Hello, Summers' residence" answered the familiar voice on the opposite end of the line.

_Time to reach out and touch someone_.  "Buffy….it's Xander."

Either she wasn't expecting to hear from him, or she was and she didn't want to.  Either way, his words were met with dead silence.  

"Look, Buff, there's kinda been an emergency.  I'm at the hospital…"

So much for the silent treatment.  "The hospital?  Why-why are you…?  Are you hurt?"  Xander could almost swear he sensed a note of alarm in the Slayer's voice.

"No.  It…it's not me; it's Dawn," he tried to reassure her, instantly regretting his choice of words.

The Slayer's alarm grew into panic, bordering on hysteria.  "Dawn?  Omigod!  Is she…?"

Xander interrupted before she could complete the thought.  "Oh, no, no.  It's Okay, Buff.  She's gonna be fine.  The doctor gave her a clean bill of health."  He didn't add that said doctor was completely mystified as to how a girl on death's doorstep had achieved a seemingly miraculous recovery in a span of less than an hour.  Xander wasn't exactly clear on that matter himself, though he had his suspicions.

"A clean bill of health for what?  What the hell happened to her, Xander?"  

"She was attacked."

"Attacked?  Attacked by whom…or what?"

"It was a vampire."

"A vampire?"  The tone of her voice rightfully suggested some degree of skepticism.

"Yes, a vampire."

"In broad daylight?"

"No, not exactly.  It happened indoors…at Stacey's."

"Stacey let a vampire into her house?"

"In a manner of speaking; Stacey was the vampire."

"Oh God.  Poor Stacey."

Xander shook his head.  "Don't think he had anything to do with it, Buff."

Buffy ignored Xander's attempt at humor.  "But somehow a vamp got to Stacey…"

Xander nodded, wasting another gesture.  "Looks like.  I'm guessing it was someone she knew."  

"And Stacey?  Did you…?"

"It's taken care of.  She won't hurt anyone else."

"And Dawn's all right?  I mean, the doctors are sure there's nothing wrong?"

"Yes, and yes.  She's fine, Buffy.  I promise; they ran blood tests and everything.  It's like I said – clean bill of health."

"I should be there with her, Xander."

"That's not necessary, Buff.  They're gonna let me take her home, just as soon as the results of the blood test are in.  Why don't you give Willow a call and meet us at Giles' place in an hour.  I think we've got a lot to talk about."

Buffy considered arguing, but wisely decided against it.  "Okay – I'll see you in an hour.  Tell Dawn I love her."

"I will," promised Xander.  "I'll see you in a few."

Xander thumbed the end button and stuffed the cell phone back his shirt pocket, turning to face the girl lying on the bed.  She was awake now, in obvious discomfort, eying him silently through somber blue eyes.

"So is she mad at me?"  As weak as Dawn was, her voice sounded even weaker.

"She's worried about you."

Dawn nodded meekly, raising her bed to the upright position.  To Xander, she suddenly looked a lot older than her sixteen years.  "I kinda got that part."

Xander reached out to the girl, covering Dawn's trembling hand with his own.  "You shouldn't push yourself, Dawn.  You've lost a lot of blood." 

"Still looking out for me, huh?"  Dawn was more than a little touched by the thought.

 Xander almost blushed.  "In case you hadn't noticed, I was a little worried, too."  

"I guess that makes three of us then."

"The doc says you're gonna be okay," Xander offered, giving her hand a gentle squeeze as he deftly changed the subject.

"And I have you to thank for that," Dawn replied, smiling weakly.  "This is getting to be a habit with you."

"I do seem to have a weak spot for the Summers women, don't I," Xander admitted, "but I don't suppose there's a 12-step program for that."  

"I guess not."  Dawn curled her fingers around Xander's, grasping his hand firmly in her own.  "Thank you…for everything."

Now it was Xander's turn to smile.  "Anytime, Dawn.  Anytime."  

The room lapsed into a comfortable silence, neither of them sure what to say, neither in any particular hurry to say it.  A minute later, Xander was the first to speak.

"I'm sorry...about Stacey.  I know what it's like to lose a friend."

Dawn closed her eyes, trying valiantly to hold back the tears.  She didn't have time for this now.  "You did what you had to," she assured him, her voice barely rising above a whisper.  "Just promise me one thing.  

Xander happily obliged.  "Name it."

"Promise me it gets better?"

It didn't, and Xander knew it, but that wasn't something you shared at a time like this.  "It does, Dawn.  I promise…it's just going to take some time."  Sometimes a well-intentioned lie was more appropriate than the truth.  

Dawn accepted his words without comment, silently grieving for her lost friend as she composed herself.  After a minute, she reopened her eyes, the apparent change in her demeanor nothing less than remarkable.  The haunted look that had resided there only moments before was gone, replaced with a look of determination that Xander had seen many times before, in another girl bearing the same last name.

"I need you to promise me something else, Xander."

Xander gazed at her warily, searching her eyes for some sign of what she was thinking.  "What's that, Dawn?"

"I need to tell you something, and I want you to swear to me that I tell you will stay between us."  

Xander was instantly on guard, and rightly so.  "Why do I get the distinct impression that I'm not going to like what you're about to tell me?"

Dawn had anticipated just that response.  "Probably because you won't.  I don't expect you to like what I have to say, Xander.  I just expect you to keep it between you and me, at least for the time being."

That did little to persuade an otherwise reluctant Xander.  "In case you'd forgotten, Dawn, keeping secrets tends to create problems in our little extended family."  

"This isn't about honesty or trust, Xander.  It's about doing what has to be done."

Actually, that's what it was precisely about, even if Dawn couldn't see it at the time.  Of course, she could be excused for her shortsightedness, given what she'd just been through.  

"It isn't that simple, Dawn.  You're asking me to take an awful lot on faith."

Patience was not a quality Dawn had in good supply.  "Look Xander, you either trust me or you don't.  But we both know that if it was Buffy asking and not me, it wouldn't even be an issue."

"Is that what this is all about – Buffy?"

It was always about Buffy, whether or not anyone – the Slayer included – wanted it to be.  "It only has to involve Buffy if we tell her.  But I'd rather it didn't come to that."

"So it is about Buffy then.  You're afraid of what she might do."

As usual, Xander had things half-right.  "No, Xander.  I'm not afraid of what she might do; I'm afraid of what she might _not_ do."

"I'm not sure I follow you."  And he wasn't sure he wanted to.

"I've told you all I'm going to, at least until you give me your word."

Xander considered his options, of which he presently had only one.  If he didn't get the girl to confide in him, she was liable to go and do something reckless, even more so than usual.   "All right," he conceded.  "If that's the only way you're going to tell me, I promise:  Whatever you say here stays between us."

"Scout's honor?"

"I got kicked out of the Boy Scouts, Dawn."  Unjustly kicked out, he might have added.  The fire had been entirely Jesse's fault.  "But I swear not to tell anyone."

Dawn hesitated momentarily, unsure if she could trust him with what she was planning, but lacking in viable alternatives.  "I know who turned Stacy."

That got Xander's attention.  "She told you?"

"Not in so many words, but the message came across pretty clearly."

"How so?"  

"Does the nickname "Niblet" ring any bells?"

Xander's eyes grew wide at the implication of what she had said.  "Wait a second.  You're telling me that Spike…"

The expression on Dawn's face answered his question.  "Are we all on the same page now?"

He shook his head in disbelief.  "That ungrateful son-of-a-bitch!  We should have staked his ass a long time ago!  When Buffy finds out about this…"

"Dammit Xander!  You promised me," she reminded him.

"Dawn," he attempted to reason with the girl, "Your sister needs to know about this."

Dawn folder her arms defiantly, daring Xander to contradict her.  "No.  She doesn't."

"Dawn…please.  Be reasonable here.  Buffy needs to stop him.  She needs to put an end this."

Dawn wasn't convinced.  "Do you really think she would?  After all this time, after everything Spike did to her, to you and Willow, do you honestly believe that she'll do now what she couldn't do before?"

"Look, I know Buffy has some unresolved issues when it comes to Spike, but we can't afford to ignore this.  He has to be stopped, once and for all."

The young girl looked him squarely in the eyes, the resolve in her own quite apparent.  "He will be," she stated calmly.

Xander didn't like where this was going.  "And how exactly is that going to happen?"

"You and I are going to put him in the ground, once and for all."  _With a little help from our friends, _she didn't add.

Nope, he didn't like it one bit.  "I don't think I have to tell you that's a really bad idea."

"I know you, Xander.  I know you want this just as much as I do.  You need this, to pay him back for what he's done to Buffy…for what he's done to me."

"It doesn't matter what I want, Dawn.  What matter's is that you're about to make a colossal mistake, and I can't sit by and allow that to happen.  I won't allow that to happen "  

"You're either with me or you're not, Xander.  Make no mistake:  I'm going after him, with or without your help.  You can't stop me from doing that.  If you want to protect me, to keep me safe, then help me get rid of that bastard once and for all."

"Dawn, I…" Xander started, only to be cut off by his younger friend.

"I know this isn't easy for you, Xander.  I know how you feel about my sister, and I know that you don't want to keep anything from her, not anymore.  But you have to believe that I'm doing what's best for her.  I love her and I will always believe in her, but at the end of the day, I know her better than anyone.  I know without a doubt that she won't be able to do what needs to be done.  Spike has some kind of power over her.  He knows how to get under her skin, how to fuck with her head.  When the time comes, she'll hesitate, and he'll use that to his advantage.  And I'll be damned if I let that monster kill anyone else I care about."  

Xander bit his tongue, wanting to argue against this lunacy, but knowing that deep down, the younger girl was right.  From Xander's vantage point, he had little choice in the matter.  When Dawn Summers set her mind to something, there was no stopping her.  It was either climb aboard the bandwagon, or get run over by it.  Xander opted for the former approach; for in addition to being a sometime White Knight, the charter member of the Buffy Anne Summers fan club, and one hell of a glorified bricklayer, Alexander Harris was also a survivor, one schooled in the subtle nuances of good old-fashioned eye-for-an-eye vengeance.  Especially when it came to Spike.

"So where do I sign up?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End Chapter 14.

As always, feedback is both requested and appreciated.  Sorry about the delay in posting – I'm still in mourning about the impending series finale of BTVS.  It's hard to believe there are only three episodes left.

Anyway, drop me a line and let me know what you think.

Until next time, 

Rabid Squirrel.


	15. The Gathering Storm

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaime__r:_ If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction? Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox, UPN, and quite possibly the U.N., sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_ Alternate version of season 7.  The real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the rest of the world. 

_Spoilers__:_ Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.   

_Rating:_R, for violence, strong language, and limited sexual content. 

_Feedback:_ Would it really kill you to take a minute and let me know what you think?  On second thought, don't answer that.  Just remember:  Constructive criticism, advice, and words of encouragement are all accepted, as are bribes, tributes, and human sacrifices.  Flames will be used to light my cigarettes, which will in turn be loosed upon the flesh of those who elect to flame or spam me.  Gangrene shall ensue.

_Dedication_: To the voices in my head:  May they never again fall silent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Words of Wisdom:_

"Sacred Cows make the best hamburger" – Mark Twain Chapter 15:  "The Gathering Storm" 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The Home of Rupert Giles**

Monday, 1045 Hours 

Willow Rosenberg had no great love for the mystery that was Earl Grey tea, but out of deference to the lingering remnants of "Englishness" in the Watcher's life she pretended to enjoy the occasional cup, at least while in his company.   

The conversation, at least the one she was currently engaged in, was another story.

"I'm must confess that I'm not quite sure what it is you're trying to tell me, Willow," Giles admitted as he stepped into the living room, balancing an antique silver serving tray atop one hand.  Despite the fact that he was fluent in five tongues – ten if you counted dead languages – he hadn't yet completely mastered the intricacies of Willow-speak.

Which was too bad, because he was about to get another lesson.

Willow glanced at her mentor, unable to resist the opportunity for some good-natured teasing.  "Why do I get the feeling that you get paid by the syllable?" she asked suspiciously, eyeing the approaching Brit – and the "refreshments" he offered – with exaggerated disdain.   Her comment elicited only a blank stare from the Englishman, an expression that closely approximated, if not mirrored, the thousand-yard stare of a deer caught in oncoming headlights.  Sighing audibly, the young redhead chose to clue him in.  "Xander was right.  You really do need to learn to speak American."  

"I beg your pardon?  What's wrong with the way I speak?" 

"Forget it – American humor.  Just tell me what part you didn't understand…in thirty words or less, if possible."

Giles set a serving tray on the coffee table, pouring two cups of steaming tea.  "Ah…yes…well…I'd have to say that pretty much the entire part between "Hi Giles" and "Do you get what I'm saying" could do with a bit of clarification."

"Giles – you just used a contraction!  I-I'm so conflicted; I don't know whether to burst with pride, or report you to Parliament for abusing the Queen's English."

The veteran Watcher chuckled in spite of himself.  He loved Willow dearly, as much as if she were his own daughter, but he'd be damned if he could ever fully understand, much less appreciate, the girl's incessant ramblings.  "I should much appreciate that you do neither of the two," the Watcher requested. "Though might I suggest that you be a little more specific in whatever it is you are trying to tell me?  After all, we do have a plane to catch in…." he trailed off, ostentatiously checking his watch, "…four days."

Willow smiled apologetically, toying with the porcelain teacup, not quite ready to take the necessary culinary plunge.  "I don't really do the whole direct thing, Giles.  That's more Buffy's style." 

"Yes, I suppose it is.  And I have a vast collection of gray hairs to show for it.  At any rate, I think it best if you tell me straight away what's bothering you."

Which she did, procrastination be damned.  "I think maybe Xander's hiding something from us."

Which was exactly what Giles was _not_ expecting to hear.  He wordlessly set the teakettle back on the silver tray, settling his lanky frame into the well-worn armchair opposite Willow.  "Tell me – what exactly makes you think that Xander's hiding something?"

"It's not so much what I think, it's more what I've heard," Willow admitted, frustrated at her inability to articulate her concerns.  "Last night I overhead Xander talking to someone at the apartment."

"Well, of course, I could see how Xander talking to someone might alarm you.  We should slay him immediately."  Contrary to popular belief, Giles was not immune to the appeal of sarcasm.

Nor, generally, was Willow, except in this particular instance.  "They were talking about Buffy," she informed him flatly, the humor noticeably absent from her voice.

"I see," Giles said, removing his glasses in preparation for yet another unnecessary cleansing.   There was an indecipherable edge to his speech, though his expression remained neutral, betraying nothing of what he was thinking at the moment.  "And this person Xander was speaking with?  Did you happen to recognize the voice?"

Willow shook her head.  "Not so much.  But I did catch his name…. it was Whistler."

 "Whistler?"  Unlike Willow, Giles wasn't familiar with the name, or the individual it belonged to.

"Yeah, you know – the guy that Buffy…. The one who told her how to…. Oh.  I guess nobody ever bothered to fill you in on that, huh?"

"That would appear to be the case," Giles observed coolly.  "But I'm sure it just slipped your minds."

"It was a long time ago," Willow offered by way of apology, "back during the whole thing with Angelus."

"Yes, I do seem to recall "the whole thing with Angelus", Giles admitted, his memory of the events reinforced by the vivid scars covering his torso.  "Pray tell, what part did this Whistler play in the whole affair ?" 

Which Willow did, however briefly.  "He showed up here looking for Buffy, just after Drusilla and her gang made with the kidnappage.  He was the one who told Buffy how to stop Acathla."

"So one could reasonably make the assumption that he's on our side?"   _Could_ was the operative phrase.  Giles hadn't lasted this long by assuming anything.            

Willow, on the other hand, was slightly less cynical.  "Well, yeah…kind of.  He told Buffy about how that was supposed to be Angel's big day, but that he was supposed to save the world, not end it.  After he came back, Angel told Buffy how Whistler had recruited him, how he had taken Angel to see Buffy on the day she was first called."

"Kind of?"

"I did a little background check on our friend Whistler," she admitted, catching the bemused expression on Giles' face.  Knowing exactly what the older man was thinking, she answered the question before it could be asked.  "Only three this time," he informed him proudly, referring to the number of anti-hacking laws she had artfully "circumvented" to obtain the information.  "Anyway, it turns out that balance demon's aren't really good guys _per-se_.  It's their job to keep the world in balance, to play off the good against the evil so neither side gains an advantage."

"So our mysterious Whistler is a Balance Demon?  I suppose that makes sense."  _Albeit_ _in some cosmically fucked-up way._

"Sorry, I guess I should have mentioned that first.  But you said you know about them…. the Balance Demons?"

"Vaguely.  I've run into one or two over the years.  By and large, an unimpressive bunch, the lot of them."

"So we shouldn't expect him to lead the cavalry charge when the proverbial shit starts to fly?"

 "Let's just say I'll reserve judgment on his motives until I know more.  For now, I'd like to know your take on the situation."

"Well, that's kinda the tricky part," Willow conceded, braving a drink of the bland tea, if only keep her voice from cracking.  "I mean, on one hand, he did help Buffy last time, so if you go with the odds, I'm inclined to guess that he's playing for the other team now."

"And on the other hand?"

"Well, this is Sunnydale, home of the Fighting Razorbacks and the big brewin' evil.  It's not like anybody really needs to handicap the odds in favor of the bad guys.  Also, Buffy said that even though Whistler was, and I quote, "_a totally annoying prick with the fashion sense of a fruit fly_", he seemed to be on the right side."

"So let me get this straight:  On the basis of a flip of a coin, the Hellmouth's propensity to spew forth evil, a Balance Demon's annoying tendencies and utter lack of good taste, we have managed to conclude only that Whistler is neither good nor evil."

"That about sums it up," Willow agreed, nodding her concurrence as she reached for a molasses cookie.  At least Giles got that part right.

"And as far as you know, Xander had no prior knowledge of this Whistler?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Willow admitted, cramming an entire cookie into her mouth.  She took another sip of tea before speaking again.  "I don't recall Buffy ever mentioning anything to him," she said through a mouthful of cookie.  "It pretty much goes without saying that anything Angel-related is taboo when it comes to Xander."

"Do you have any idea what they were talking about– specifically that is?"

"That would be an emphatic no.  I only caught pieces of their conversation, though I did hear Whistler say something about Xander keeping his promise; he mentioned that Xander was supposed to keep an eye on Buffy and prepare her for what's to come.  As for what that means, I have no idea.  I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the subject, you being the Watcher and all."

"You've said nothing to Xander about this, then?" Giles asked her, the recriminations flying through his head faster than he could process them.   "_And before the plains of Elysium the Slayer will fall; betrayed by those she would call friend".  Was Xander to be her betrayer?  Was the young man even capable of such treachery?_

"Again, not so big on the whole confrontation concept," Willow explained, mercifully oblivious to Giles' inner turmoil.  "Anyway, what would I have said to him?  Hey Xand, how's it going?  Planning on stabbing Buffy in the back anytime soon?"

"Of course…you're right," Giles temporized, still struggling to come to terms with his suspicions.  "It's probably best that we not say anything to Xander, at least until we know more about what's going on."

"I don't suppose you would have any idea on how we're supposed to go about that?  Recent events notwithstanding, Xander is still my best friend.  We talk all the time…well, we don't always _talk _per se, but still – we do the whole friend routine.  And friends don't keep these kinds of things from each other.  We've gone that route before, with less than spectacular results if I remember correctly."

"Quite so," Giles concurred.  "However, we must remember that Xander tends to be rather impulsive when it comes to all things Buffy.  It seems likely to me that, if he is indeed working with this Whistler fellow, then its only because he's trying to help Buffy, and not harm her."

Willow wasn't entirely convinced.  "But it that's true, then why go behind our backs?  Why not come to us for help?  If he really wanted to help Buffy, then why wouldn't her tell her what's going on?  Giles, it just doesn't make any sense!  I don't want to think that Xander could possibly be doing something bad…. I mean, he's my friend, and I know he would never willingly do anything to hurt Buffy.  But still…"

"Nobody's suggesting anything of the sort, Willow," Giles interjected, doing his best to assuage the girl's fears, despite his own rapidly growing sense of dread.  "Regardless of the present difficulties between them, Xander has proven time and again his loyalty and devotion to Buffy.  As far as I'm concerned, that's not even in question.  But, like it or not, we have to face the facts, and the fact remains that we do not know what Xander has involved himself in.  It may very well be that Whistler is here to help Buffy, and not to harm her.  But we don't know Xander's role in this; nor do we know his motivation.  Until these questions are answered, I think it prudent that we not reveal what we know."

"And Buffy…what about her?  If she might be in some kind of danger, doesn't she have a right to know?"

"Yes, of course Buffy has a right, and, I should think, the need to know.  However, we must bear in mind Buffy's likely reaction to such a revelation, given the current state of her relationship with Xander.  Unless I've misinterpreted the situation – and that's altogether likely given my track record – the two of them aren't exactly on the best of terms right now."

Willow squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, panicked at the mere thought of discussing the Scooby Gang's personal lives with Giles.  Explaining the nature of the problem between her two friends necessarily meant delving into her little dalliance with Xander.  From her vantage point, undergoing rectal surgery presented an infinitely more attractive option than having _that_ talk with Giles.  As rectal surgery really wasn't a realistic choice, Willow opted for the path of least resistance.

"I think they're still both trying to work through the whole Spike issue," she chimed in, not technically lying; yet not divulging the whole truth.  "You know how stubborn Xander can be; he hasn't forgiven Buffy for what she did.  And Buffy, she still can't accept that she actually…. well, you know…. the horizontal thing with Spike…. all those times that they…."

"I'll thank you to never mention that again," Giles asked of her.  He still felt nauseous every time he thought of that rotting creature touching _his_ Slayer.  Fortunately, like the rest of the group, Giles was becoming increasingly adept at repressing unwanted memories.  Not surprisingly, that particular memory was _numero uno_ on the list of things to be forgotten.

"I'm just saying…." Willow countered unnecessarily, "Xander tends to carry a big chip on his shoulder.  He may forgive, but he never really forgets, not where Buffy's concerned."

"That's only natural, Willow.  Given the nature of Xander's feelings toward Buffy, it's not at all surprising that he would feel that way."

Willow arched an eyebrow in noticeable surprise, her worries momentarily brushed aside.  "I didn't think you'd noticed."

"Must I constantly remind you all that I am still a Watcher?  I do, on occasion, happen to take notice of the world around me.  I rather think it part of the job description."

"Well…. yeah; no offense, but I just assumed that you ignored everything non-Hellmouth related.  You know, out of principle and all."

 "In a just world, I would.  However, seeing as how I can never seem to extricate myself from your sordid and overly complicated personal lives, I have little choice but to take notice."  That their lives greatly resembled an episode of "_Passions_" he didn't feel compelled to share at the moment.  Why encourage them?

"In that case, you should probably ask for a raise."  After putting up with them for six years, he deserved it.

"Believe me, I have.  It seems the Council had other ideas."

"They usually do," Willow agreed, not without a certain degree of bitterness.  Fortunately, though she didn't yet know it, that wouldn't long be an issue.  "But I think we might be getting off the subject."

"Ahh, yes.  Well, I think the important thing is to remember that Buffy is more than capable of taking care of herself.  I don't see any reason to bother her with this just yet, at least until we've talked to Xander."

Willow saw things a little differently.  "Don't you think you're being just a tad bit dismissive about this?  I understand that Buffy can handle just about anything.  But if we know something, even suspect something, then we have an obligation to tell her."

"But that's my point, Willow.  We don't _know_ that anything's going on.  All we know is that Xander is possibly involved with somebody who has only helped Buffy in the past.  We have no justifiable reason to suspect anything untoward, in spite of this one isolated incident.  And until we do, I would rather we not jump to any premature conclusions."

"How can you be so blasé about this, Giles?  If Whistler's here, and Xander's working with him, then something is definitely happening.  This is the Hellmouth… remember?  It's _never_ nothing.  And hello – isolated incident?  I think not!  Mark my words; there is definite weirdness afoot.  In case you hadn't noticed, giant four-legged bodyguards aren't exactly the norm around here.  And what about Buffy's newfound wealth?  You can't tell me those things are all just a coincidence."

"Willow, please understand me.  I am concerned about what's happening.  But we must keep things in perspective.  We don't know what's going on with Xander, but you of all people must have faith in him.  You said yourself that he would never do anything to compromise Buffy's well-being.  And as for the other two issues, there's no concrete evidence to suggest that either of them is in any way related to the situation with Xander.  In truth, they both seem to be a blessing for Buffy, do they not?"

"So now who's missing the point?" Willow challenged him, raising her voice an octave.  "Giles, I trust Xander with my life; I also know how stubborn and impulsive he can be when he thinks someone's in danger.  Because of that, he goes charging into situations without thinking things through.  If he believed for even a second that Buffy was in danger, then he'd do whatever he thought necessary to protect her.  And the other things…it doesn't really matter whether or they benefit Buffy; the important thing is that there's an underlying reason for all of them – there's a reason they're happening all at once.  If those…. those things… are here to protect Dawn, then it's because somebody thought they needed to be.  And if somebody gave all that money to Buffy, then maybe that somebody thought it best that she focus her energy on slaying, and not flipping burgers at the Doublemeat Palace.  Giles, like it or not, we both know that something is happening, something big.  Buffy needs to know.  And if you won't tell her, then I will."

"Willow, please.  Don't misinterpret my intentions.  I'm just concerned that if we share what we know – or even think we know – with Buffy, then chances are she'll react in a less than rational manner."

"Don't even go there, Giles.  I know what you're thinking; but Buffy would never hurt Xander.  She loves him.

"Loves him?  Am I to understand that Buffy's feelings toward Xander have changed?"

"Well, yeah – maybe a little bit.  But that's so not the point!  What matters is that Buffy wouldn't hurt Xander.  She'd be upset with him, sure, but she'd never physically harm him…at least not permanently."

"We are talking about the same person, are we not?  The same one who's nearly came to blows with Xander on multiple occasions?  The same one who nearly killed Dawn and Xander during her little mental episode last year?"

To say Willow was shocked by the tone of Gile's remarks would be a drastic understatement.  "How can you say these things, Giles?  This is Buffy – your Slayer!  The girl you supposedly have "a father's love" for?"

"Please understand me, Willow.  I'm not saying these things to either hurt you or demean Buffy.  I just wonder if perhaps you might be jumping the gun a bit when it comes to this.  I think maybe your overcompensating for past events."

"Overcompensating?  Reality check, Giles:  I'm not doing this to ease my conscience or make amends to Buffy.  I'm saying these things because I'm worried about my friends, and I'm worried that _perhaps_ you're not giving this the attention it deserves."

"Willow, please.  You just have to accept that I'm trying to do what's best given our limited grasp of the situation."

_But was he really?  _Willow rose from her chair, pacing the room as she struggled to come to terms with what Giles was saying.  She glanced back at her mentor uncertainly; her hazel eyes locking with Giles' blue ones, silently pleading with him to see things her way.  Something definitely wasn't kosher.  Aside from the obvious indications – namely Xander's midnight rendezvous and a few additional odd occurrences  – there were other indications; the tone of Giles' words, the near total lack of concern in his voice.   It was as if he wasn't worried, as if he knew something she didn't.

And then, just like that, everything clicked.  In an instant, it all made sense.  

The most difficult lesson Willow had ever learned was that the truth was seldom an easy thing to accept, all the more so when it ran counter to everything you'd ever held – or even just wished – to be true.  Truth, as she had come to know it, was by its very nature a dichotomy; an intangible concept with unfailingly tangible consequences.  But contrary to what she might presently believe, truth was never patently cruel.  For that would imply intent, and the truth, even in this instance, had no such motivation.  Truth was just truth for its own sake; it owed no allegiance, and allowed no recourse.  That was the nature of the beast.

Which, at present, was of precious little consolation to Willow Rosenberg.

She struggled to find her voice; her words coming out as only a whisper, an incontrovertible indictment borne on the single gasp of breath she was able to summon.  "You knew," she said softly, resolutely, her quiet observation masking the torrent of emotion building within her.  "All this time – you knew, and you stood there and lied to my face."  

Giles was many things, but a fool was not one of them.  He knew when he'd been compromised.  He also knew that trifling with an extremely pissed-off Wicca was probably not in his best interest, especially when said witch's eyes had just now turned a decidedly unnatural shade of black.  "Willow…"

She wasn't about to give him a chance to explain.  "Don't you dare!" she demanded, her features partially obscured by a few stray strands of rapidly darkening hair.  "You knew…you knew all along that something was going on.  That's why you're being so nonchalant about all of this.  You knew, and you didn't tell me!"

_Was that a vein he saw protruding from her forehead?  _"Now Willow – please…you must calm down.  It's not what you think."  

"You couldn't possibly have the slightest idea what I'm thinking right now," Willow corrected him, her voice still oddly subdued, her breath visible in the rapidly chilling air.  "Believe me when I tell you you're going to find out."

"Please Willow, you mustn't lose control of yourself; you must focus.  I can assure you there's a very good reason for my actions."

"Oh really?" she asked coldly, affixing the older man with a penetrating glare.  "And what reason could you possibly have for lying to me?"

Gathering his nerve, the Watcher looked the young woman directly in the eyes, his solemn expression conveying a finality his words could not.

"Because Buffy's going to die…. again."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**1629 Revello Drive**

1050 Hours 

Technically speaking, the house was no longer for sale, regardless of what the sign in the front yard said.  

It had been listed several months earlier, at a time when the real estate market in Sunnydale was described as anything but booming.  It hadn't helped matters that the house directly across the street seemed to be a magnet for what the insurer frequently referred to as "acts of God", as if the deity himself were responsible for the wanton acts of destruction inflicted on the structure by the less savory elements in Sunnydale.  As it was, the occurrences in and around 1630 had single handedly depressed property values in the neighborhood to an extent that – coupled with the ever-present danger of living next door to the Summers – had compelled the vast majority of residents to make their homes elsewhere.  Of course, that suited the current occupant of 1629 just fine.  After all, it was because of his new neighbor that he was here in the first place.

In truth, he wasn't really an occupant; that was just a convenient term.  Intruder would be a more appropriate word to describe the man.  That's what the actual owners of the house on 1629 Revello would likely have called him, if not for the fact that their bodies were currently lying on the cellar floor, matching 9mm bullets wounds adorning the head and chest of each.

There was a time when the man would have felt bad about what he'd done.  But, like many other things, that time had since passed.  He knew that the world was changing, even if he refused to fully accept it.  In his own mind, he knew why it was so:  It was her fault, and hers alone.  She was the one who'd betrayed them; she was the one who'd initiated this insurrection that had so suddenly and violently brought down the organization to which he'd pledged his loyalty and his life.  The Council was all he'd ever know – all he'd ever wanted to know.  And now it was gone.  And she would pay for it, pay with her worthless life.

The man hefted the rifle, securing the black-matte barrel to the tripod resting on the table in front of the windowsill.  The window itself faced to the east, it's dirty, translucent surface reflecting the rising sun's rays just so, preventing the curious observer from seeing inside.   For a moment he'd considered opening it, concerned about the likelihood of deflection as the bullet passed through the glass pane.  After some thought, he'd decided against it, opting instead to utilize the semi-automatic capability of the Armalite rifle, compensating for the probable deflection of the first round by quickly and expertly following the initial shot with a second.   

He'd been waiting for some time, patiently manning his post as he waited for his intended target to present herself.  He'd initially favored a more intimate approach, wanting to put a bullet into the ungrateful bitch at point-blank range, if only to look the traitor in the eyes as the life drained from her body.  Of course, Operations had advised against such a course of action, warning him of the inherent danger involved in directly confronting the girl, as well as the unwarranted attention he'd garner to the cause by needlessly exposing the operation.  And so he'd been relegated to his perch on the second floor, assuming a role he thought he'd left behind so many years before.  Of course, this wasn't exactly Belfast, and he sincerely doubted the boys at Hereford would sanction an operation such as this, even if the girl actually was – as he considered her to be – a terrorist.  But that didn't matter right now.  The only thing that did matter was that Buffy Summers was finally going to get hers.

He pulled a finely machined metal canister from his military surplus duffel, carefully screwing the threaded end of the cylinder onto the front of the barrel, an act that still seemed surprisingly familiar to him, even after all these years.  It was, despite the obvious dissimilarities, a lot like riding a bike.  The clip came next, fifteen rounds of 5.96mm subsonic rounds.  He didn't expect to use more than two shots, three at the outside.  The breaking window would likely attract some attention at this time of day, as would the soon-to-be dead girl on the porch of the bungalow across the street.  That's why he needed the suppressor, and with it the low-powered ammunition.  It wasn't widely appreciated that a supersonic round could not effectively be silenced.  You could trap the expanding gases from the shot with a proper silencer (silencer itself was a misleading term – one could dampen the sound of a fired round, but never completely silence it), but there was still the matter of the ambient noise associated with a projectile, whether bullet or aircraft – traveling faster than the speed of sound.  In all likelihood, it wouldn't really matter how much noise he made, as long as it came after the shots were fired.  If all went well, within forty-five seconds of firing the first shot, he would be packed and out the back door, leaving behind only three corpses and a lot of unanswered questions, none of which would ever be tied to him.  At least, that was the plan.

The man calmly took a seat at the table, consciously stepping through his breathing exercises as lowered his right eye to the scope, simultaneously working the action to chamber the first round.  He knew she'd be coming out soon; not from any sixth sense or bullshit intuition, but from the tap they'd placed on her line the previous day.  He'd heard the call as it came through:  _Little sis got bit by a bloodsucker…. well that was just too damn bad, wasn't it?_  Served the little brat right; for all he knew, she was probably just like her older sister, in which case her death would have been a blessing.  And one never knew, maybe he'd get to take care of that one as well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1630 Revello 

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Buffy had always accepted that Dawn would be in danger, at least as long as she remained in Sunnydale.  It wasn't a particularly pleasant thought, though it was manageable, even if there had been an abundance of close calls.  But Dawn was supposed to be safe in the daytime, protected from the creatures of the night by the ever-present California sunlight, safely tucked away among the endless throngs of people meandering about.  That's how it was supposed to be.  

But since when did things ever go according to plan?  

She tried to look at things rationally.  So Dawn was in the hospital, her throat nearly ripped out by her former best friend, who was now just a pile of ash?  No problem – she could deal.  Xander hated her guts?  So be it.  She'd lasted this long without him; she could make it a few more years, or decades, or whatever the hell it was that came after decades.  She was the Slayer; she was supposed to be alone.  And so what if something majorly fucked-up was about to go down, for like the umpteenth time in her life?  She'd done the apocalypse routine before.  What was one more time?  

To be sure, the reality of the situation was considerably more complicated than she would like to admit.  Buffy had been honest with herself where Dawn was concerned - she really could deal.  Yes, it had shaken her a bit, and pissed her off a bit more, but she understood the risks, and – by and large – accepted them for what they were – occupational hazards.  It helped matters tremendously knowing that if and when she found the responsible party, heads would quite literally roll.

And then of course, there was Xander.  She'd been somewhat less than honest in her self-appraisal of all things Xander-related.

Buffy hadn't exactly made it this far without him.  In truth, she knew that he had been there forher the whole time, fighting the good fight, watching her back every step of the way, even if he hadn't been there _with _her.  And while the distinction may have seemed a subtle one at first glance, it nonetheless mattered quite a bit to Buffy Anne Summers, even if she didn't quire understand why.

Of course, in the final analysis, Buffy had been right about one crucial fact:  The overriding problem wasn't that all of these things were happening to her.  The problem was that all of these things were happening to her at once.   And there was still more to come.

Blissfully naïve of what awaited, Buffy pulled out her cell phone, dialing the seven-digit number from memory, as Xander had asked of her.  She hadn't really thought about what she would say to Willow, aside from the obvious, that is.  To be fair, it wasn't as if Willow had done anything that she herself wouldn't have, given half the chance.  And in all honesty, she sincerely doubted that it had been about the sex at all, considering Willow's state of mind and Xander's protective nature.  But self-righteousness was a demanding mistress, and for that reason Buffy still entertained certain illusions, chief among them the belief that it had indeed been entirely about the sex, if only to spite her.  And so Buffy couldn't find it within herself to forgive Xander, or by virtue of her complicity, Willow.  Which was fine with Buffy.  It just made things easier.

Xander's home phone rang once.  Then a second and third time, the familiar recorded voice finally announcing to Buffy that no one was currently available to take her call, and that she could leave a message – if she so chose – at the beep.  And that, too, was fine with Buffy.  She didn't really feel like talking to anyone, answering machines included, at the moment.  

She gratefully thumbed the end button, walking out the front door and onto the porch, unaware that from a darkened window across the street, a pair of eyes tracked her every move.  Still clutching her phone in one hand, she turned to lock the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fewer than a hundred feet away, a man watched the events unfolding with more than a passing interest.  He'd been one of them once, a member of the select few chosen to guide the Slayer and wage the war against the forces of darkness.  But that was all in the past now.  He hadn't been sent to Sunnydale on the whims of the Executive Council; he was here of his own volition – his assistance requested by someone whom he knew didn't completely trust him, but who sought his help nonetheless.  

That he'd come was not at all surprising.  He'd harbored a festering hatred these past four years, yearning for the chance to exact his revenge upon those responsible for the present state of things.  And that one phone call had given him just such an opportunity.

Smiling to himself, Wesley Wyndham-Price took careful aim, his finger lightly brushing reassuringly against the trigger-guard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As it was, Buffy never actually heard the first shot.  Jiggling the key hopelessly in the lock – Xander hadn't yet gotten around to replacing it – the sound of shattering glass nearly escaped her notice.  But not quite.

Her keys still dangling from the lock, the diminutive Slayer spun counterclockwise, her attention instinctively drawn to the incongruous sound of exploding glass, her eyes automatically seeking out its source.  Even as she reacted, the would-be assassin let loose with a second shot, the muzzle flash alerting Buffy to the real threat.  

What happened next came as a surprise to them both.

Buffy would never recall exactly how it happened.  She would only remember that there was a loud noise, a flash of light, and then everything just stopped – or seemed to at any rate.  What struck her at the time was that while she never actually heard either of the shots fired at her, she could see each approaching bullet in remarkable detail, right down to the rifling marks embedded in each deadly missile.  It seemed as if the very fabric of time had been torn asunder, its natural continuum violated by some unnatural force.  

And that wasn't all.

What she hadn't realized, but eventually would, was that even before the second shot had been fired, her body had already reacted to the threat presented by its predecessor.  Performing a move that would have done the Wachowski brothers proud, Buffy Summers ratcheted her upper body violently, bending backwards until her entire torso was perfectly parallel with the ground, her feet still firmly planted on the concrete porch.  The lethal projectile, which had only milliseconds before been speeding towards her back, now passed harmlessly overhead, embedding itself in the front door of 1630 Revello Drive, to be followed only moments later by a second round, impacting three inches above the first.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The shooter looked on in bewilderment, momentarily unable to fire another shot.  _It was impossible!  _No Slayer could move that fast.  Nothing human could do what the girl had just done.  He had to remind himself that she wasn't really human, a notion that wasn't far from the truth, even if the man had no reason to really believe it.

Quickly composing himself, he swiveled the barrel downward toward the now moving target, selecting a fully automatic burst this time.  She could avoid one, even two shots.  He was betting she couldn't outrun a dozen.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Buffy was on the move now, darting across the asphalt strip, hurtling toward the source of the attack, her movements as graceful as they were unexpected.  She knew that they'd expect her to run away, to seek cover from the fire.  

They would be wrong.  

If there was one overriding law of nature on the Hellmouth, it was that Buffy Summers never ran away from danger.  Like an insect irresistibly drawn to the light, she sought it out, destroying it where it stood.  She didn't fear death.  Didn't fear pain.  She only feared failing, and that didn't happen on her watch.  

She closed the distance in a matter of seconds, vaulting effortlessly over a parked car, never breaking stride as she reached the sidewalk in front of the house.   In her wake, the pavement erupted intermittently, violently, a fusillade of rounds impacting harmlessly on the asphalt she had just left behind.  Reaching the house, she took the front stairs in one bounding stride, ignoring the voice in her head telling her this was ludicrous, that she couldn't outrun a bullet. 

Above her, the rifle belatedly tracked her approaching form, losing the target as the girl passed from view beneath.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He knew he'd failed.  Even as he turned around to meet the imminent threat, he knew that she had already bested him.  To be sure, she'd be angry, certainly angry enough to kill him.  He still had the rifle of course, as little consolation as that was.  He hadn't been able to hit her with the first two shots, when he still had the advantage of surprise, and he'd faired equally as well with the remainder of the clip.  He sincerely doubted he'd be able to redeem the situation at this point.  

It wasn't until he'd completed his turn that he realized just how wrong he'd been.

The other man stood half in the shadows, just inside the open bedroom door.  The rifleman couldn't make out the man's identity, but he could discern the gleam of the large caliber Colt leveled at his chest.  He glanced down uncertainly at the rifle in his hands, a gesture not lost on the new arrival.

"That won't do you any good, Charles," a familiar voice observed matter-of-factly.

_He knew that voice; knew the man it belonged to…. he just couldn't place it._ "Who are you?  And how in the Hell do you know my name?"

The mystery man took a step forward, the sunlight playing over his features, giving Charles a brief glimpse of his face.  "It has been some time, hasn't it, my friend?"

"Wesley? Wesley Wyndham-Price?  Is that you?"

"It is," the former Watcher admitted, his ears straining to pick up the sound of the front door shattering downstairs.  He only had a few short moments now – to do what must be done.  

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to make things right, old chum.  And for that, I am truly sorry."  Without further explanation, he squeezed the trigger once, forever ending his association with the late Charles William Emerson.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

State Street 

**Sunnydale, CA**

**1050 hrs**

**En-route to Gile's**

Xander cast an uncertain glance at the passenger seat.  "I'm not exactly getting a warm fuzzy about this, Dawn." 

Groaning her displeasure at Xander's admission, the girl leaned forward, turning down the volume on _Godsmack _for the second time in the past five minutes.  "This is absolutely, 100% final, the _last _time we're going to have this conversation, so listen carefully:  I don't give a damn if you're having second thoughts.  We _are_ going to hunt down Spike.  We _are_ going to burn his worthless ass alive.  And we _are_ going to do the Snoopy dance all over his ashes, whether you like it or not.  Am I making myself clear?"

"Abundantly.  That's what worries me."

"I'm not going to change my mind," Dawn asserted defiantly, daring Xander to suggest otherwise.

"No, I don't suppose you would.  I just think it'd be better if you slept on it, tried to get a little perspective.  You shouldn't make important decisions when you're angry."

_Who are you, and what have you done with my Xander?  _"Since when did you become perspective guy?"

"Since I saw you nearly die right in front of me.  It kind of made a lasting impression."

That shut Dawn up…. for about five seconds.  'I'm gonna be fine, Xander," she assured him.  "Remember, no permanent damage."

"Yeah, and I'd prefer to keep it that way," he admonished her.  "Harboring personal vendettas against unstable vampires generally leads to badness and mayhem.  And I think it voids your life insurance policy."

"I'm not harboring a vendetta; I'm acting on it.   Besides, the shrink told me I shouldn't keep my feelings bottled up inside.  She told me to let them out, to act on them, so if you look at this from a purely psychological perspective, killing Spike is actually therapeutic."

"I'm looking at this from more of a physical perspective, as in it's physically bad if you die."

"I can take care of myself," Dawn objected.

Xander raised a skeptical eyebrow in her direction.  He didn't need to say it.

Dawn caught his drift.  "That was different; Captain Peroxide caught me off guard.  It won't happen again."

"And if it does…?"

"Then you'll be there to protect me," Dawn offered, finishing the thought.  "Besides, isn't that what "_White Knights_" do?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End Chapter 15.

As always, thanks to all who have taken the time to read and review:

Chorlton:  What can I say, I've never understood Buffy's obsession with clothes.  I just try to write her as true to character as I can bear!  Thanks for the kind words, and rest assured, there a still a few surprises in store for Dawn and Xander, at least where Spike is concerned.

WBH21C:  Keep the "Faith", man.  You just never know.

Lori:  Lots 'o love to my lost loyal reviewer – thanks for sticking with the story.  It's readers like you who make me want to write more.

John:  It's always good to see there's someone out there who hates Spike (at least as an involuntary "good guy") as much as I do.  Thanks for the suggestions.

RobClark:  I haven't forgotten about you guys.  I've just been in a funk since BTVS wound down to the series finale.  Maybe I'll even finish this story before another spin-off hits the air!  Thanks so much for hanging with my little vision of Buffy.

Eckles71:  Glad to see you've found your way back man.  I aim to please.

Rob:  If the story depresses you (a little), then it's had the desired effect.  Rest assured there will be an emotional payoff at some point, as well as a Scooby reconciliation; just don't expect things to get better any time soon.  And good catch on the Christianity theme.  I haven't gotten many comments on that….I guess maybe it turns some people off.  

Jarald:  Submit as many reviews as you like; I can never get enough.  Good call on the "Prophecy" allusions.  I was wondering if anybody had noticed.

That's about it for now; I know I've said this before, but look for more action next chapter, some unexpected revelations, and the return of Danyael, along with some friends.

'Till next time,

Rabid Squirrel


	16. Weapons of Mass Distraction

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaime__r:_ If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction? Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox, UPN, and quite possibly the U.N., sick bastards all of them.

_Summary:_ Alternate version of season 7:  The real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the entire human race. 

_Spoilers__:_ (BTVS) Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.   Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3.

_Rating:_R, for violence, strong language, and limited sexual content. 

_Feedback:_ Want it; crave it; need it.  'Nuff said.

_Dedication_: To Jeebus, who never learned the difference between "prophet" and "profit".  Next time, leave the water the fuck alone!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Words of Wisdom:_

"This would be really funny if it weren't happening to me" – Rabid Squirrel, on life. 

**Chapter 16:  "Weapons of Mass Distraction**"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And then there were the signs.

The _Five Man Electric Band _had disparaged them in song; the Bible prophetically foretold of their coming, and all around Sunnydale, any number of people were presently doing their best to interpret them.  

But in all of Sunnydale, there was only one sign that really mattered, one that told its diviner everything he needed to know about what was happening, in terms that could not be misunderstood.

Just a few feet outside the city limits, set amongst a featureless expanse of sand on the edge of the Pacific Coast Highway, a solitary metal placard stood vigil atop a metal stand.  Emblazoned on its green background were three words, words originally intended to welcome visitors to the sleepy town, but which now served as a stark warning to those either brave or foolish enough to venture any further.

The sign read simply:  _Welcome To Sunnydale._

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

If one were to continue further past the sign (assuming one had the testicular fortitude to do such an ill-advised thing, knowing what we do about Sunnydale), he would come to what appears to be an archetypal California town, replete with palm trees, an abundance of suntanned blondes, and of course, the ubiquitous shopping mall.  

But then, looks could be deceiving.

Sunnydale wasn't your typical town, not even by California standards.  It wasn't even really _a_ town at all, at least not in the grand scheme of things.  Though numerous settlements had sprung up in the area over the years, due in large part to a hospitable climate and its close proximity to the ocean, the area in question had always served a far grander – some might say nefarious – purpose.  The present incarnation of Sunnydale, population 15,586 and falling, sat atop a cosmic junction point, a sort of highway interchange from hell. 

Not that most were privy to that little piece of information.  The majority of current residents, both of the living and undead variety, knew their town wasn't exactly Mayberry, even if they didn't really know why.  Normal small towns didn't have 12 cemeteries; they didn't have half of the graduating class of 1999 eaten by a giant serpent; and they weren't situated above one of only two known Hellmouths in the continental United States.  Of course, in the interest of fairness, Cleveland wasn't exactly a normal town either, Hellmouth or no Hellmouth.  However, the so-called "Mistake by the Lake" is a matter for another time.  It doesn't concern us just yet.

But Sunnydale does concern us, and a lot of other people as well…. more than just the fifteen thousand plus that happened to make their homes there.  In addition to being a gateway to Hell, Sunnydale was a place where things happened, for better or worse.  And at this very moment, things were indeed happening…mostly for the worse.

As the sun climbed lazily into the Eastern sky that morning, conspiracies were unfolding all over the _Boca Del Inferno_; battle lines were being drawn, armies amassed, and coalitions formed and broken, all in the name of progress.  And on a partially deserted section of State Street, just a block from a certain Art Gallery, a few secrets were about to be revealed as well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Xander's Truck**

**State Street**

**En-Route to Gile's House**

Xander slammed his foot down on the brake, conveniently opting to ignore Newton's First law of Motion.  As the truck lurched to an abrupt halt, both occupants were thrown forward in their seats, their forward momentum arrested at the last possible moment as two sets of seatbelts locked in place, effectively knocking the wind out of both Dawn and Xander.  Somehow, the sixteen-year old still managed to speak, albeit in halting gasps.

"Well…I guess that settles it then," Dawn observed with a crooked grin, gingerly rubbing her bruised ribs over the seatbelt embedded in her chest

 Not surprisingly, Xander wasn't smiling, not even a little bit.  "What in the hell are you talking about?"  

"You know, the sticker on your bumper?  The one that says, "_Cleverly disguised as a responsible adult_".  I always wondered if that was intended as a joke or a warning.  Now I know."

Xander shook his head.  "Nice try, Dawn.  Try rewinding a little further."

_So much for understated attempts at diversion_.  "Oh, you mean the whole White Knight bit…. wasn't sure you picked up on that."

"Subtlety's never really been one of your strong points."

"So I guess you probably want an explanation or something."

"Or something…if it's not too much trouble."  Not that he really cared if it was.

Dawn considered her options.  "And if it is?"

"You tell me anyway," Xander advised, the tone of his voice suggesting the matter had already been decided.

Dawn had suspected as much.  "All right," she conceded, "but I have to warn you – you're probably not gonna like what I have to say."

"Not exactly a revelation, is it?"

Dawn nodded soberly.  "Guess not."

"So let's hear it then.  From the top."

Dawn fell silent for a moment, briefly considering how best to describe something that she herself didn't quite understand.  "It began about a month ago," she started tentatively, avoiding Xander's gaze, staring out the passenger side window as they resumed the short trip to Giles' house.  "That's when I started having the dreams. "

Xander ventured a glance over at his passenger.  "I assume by the tone of your voice that these aren't your garden variety walking-into-class-naked kind of dreams?"

"You assume correctly," Dawn admitted, still gazing out the window, looking outside for answers that weren't there.  "They were mostly just random events, scenes from the past, things that I didn't – couldn't – know about.  It was like watching a movie trailer – big on the action, short on plot."

"But you believe they're all somehow connected?"

She shook her head.  "I didn't at first.  But the more I think about it, the more they do seem to have one thing in common."

"And that is…?"

"Everything I saw, everything I dreamed I saw, all happened before I existed.  I saw things that Buffy had done back in high school; I saw the day she was called by Merrick.  And there were other things, things I don't remember from all of my fake memories."  She looked pointedly at Xander, driving her point home.

"I presume one of those _other things_ was a certain incident at the hospital?"

"You could say that," Dawn acknowledged with a weak smile.  "And by the way – thank you."

"For what?"  Xander honestly didn't know.

"I saw what you did for Buffy – and not just that one time."  The smile grew a little brighter, in spite of what she had gone through that morning.  She shook her head in amazement.  "You don't even think about yourself, do you?" she asked admiringly.   "You just ride in on your white horse and do what needs to be done, Lone Ranger style."

Xander opened his mouth, attempting to say something which modesty prevented.  

"You don't have to say anything," Dawn interrupted.  "Knowing you, you'd probably just ruin the moment anyway.  Let's just admit to ourselves that we both know why you do it, and let it go at that.

Which of course Xander couldn't do.  "I think you're reading too much into this, Dawn…. about Buffy, that is.  And the Lone Ranger comment?  Faulty metaphor; I tend to see myself as more of a Tonto…. or possibly even Trigger."

"Faulty metaphor aside, Xander, you're wrong.  Those dreams, whatever they were, were meant to tell me something.  They showed me the things you've done, Xander; In my dreams I saw the look in your eyes, every single time you put your life on the line to protect her.  When you faced down Angeles, you didn't do it out of some sense of nobility, and you sure as hell didn't do it for anything as self-serving as recognition.  When you put yourself between Angel and Buffy, you did it because you were afraid you were going to lose her, and if it came down to your life or hers, in your eyes it was no contest."

"Dawn, we're not having this conversation again."

"I believe we already are," she insisted.  "Listen, Xand:  I've had a really shitty day.  I was nearly killed by my best friend, a friend who I can't even bury because there's nothing left of her but a pile of dust.  So at least show me enough respect to be honest with me.  I think I deserve that much."

"It's not like that.  I didn't mean it that way."

"Nobody ever does.  But we really don't have time for this right now, so I'm going to say this one thing, and then we're going to move on.  Capiche?"

Xander relented; he could never say no to Dawn.  "Capiche."

"All right, then here it is:  I can't stop you from lying to Buffy.  That's your choice, and yours alone.  But I am going to borrow a page from Willow's book.  If you hurt my sister, if you're not honest with her, I will beat you to death with a shovel.  You have my word on that."

Xander believed her, for what it was worth.  "So we're finished then?"

Dawn shook her head.  "Not by a long shot.  There's one more thing.  As shitty as my day has been, I have learned one thing, Xander:  Life's too damn short to let a stupid thing like pride keep us from finding happiness.  If you truly don't love Buffy, then fine.  I can live with that, even if I don't like it.  But if you're keeping her at arm's length because your pride's been wounded, as I suspect is the case, than you're not half the man I thought you were.  Whether you want my advice or not, I'm going to give it to you:  Bury the hatchet.  Put the past aside and let sleeping dogs lie.  I don't like the fact that she was with Spike.  I don't understand it, and frankly, I don't want to.  But we can't change what happened, and neither can Buffy.  Dwelling on the past only keeps us from living in the present.  One way or another, you have come to terms with what happened and move on, no matter how much it hurts."

Xander, who had sat quietly through Dawn's tirade, finally spoke.  "Sooo…. are we finished now?"

"As pertains to all things Buffy – yes."

Xander nodded, and then prompted her to continue.  "You said _at first_ it was just the dreams?"

"Yeah…for the first couple of weeks anyway.  But then the dreams started changing.  It wasn't just random events playing in my head anymore.  There was a voice, someone or something narrating my dreams, whispering to me in the darkness."

"What did the voice say?"

"It said that I needed to discover my path, that it was time to embrace my destiny; it was time to become_._"

"Become?" 

"That's what the voice said," Dawn confirmed, cognizant of the incredulous expression on Xander's face.  "And don't look at me like that.  It's not like I asked for any of this.  I don't pretend to understand the voices; I just listen to them.  Anyway, there was more.  The voice also warned that something would be coming for me. It said that in the last days the _Fallen ones_ would come in search of the Key, that there quest would lead them to the gates of hell."

Xander raised an eyebrow.   _They need Dawn, _he mused to himself.  _She's the one they want – not Buffy_.  He looked curiously at the teenage girl.  "Sounds a little on the dire side, don't you think?"

"Depends on who you ask.  But I did kinda get a creepy Apocalypse now-ish vibe."

"And you didn't feel the need to share this with anyone?"  Not that the end of the world wasn't commonplace, but still, there were procedures to be followed

"I believe I just did.  Besides, I didn't really remember any of it, at least not until I woke up in the hospital this morning."

Xander accepted that at face value.  "Did the voice say anything else?  Something about your sister?"

Knowing Xander as she did, Dawn easily saw through the facade.  "Why do I get the feeling there's something you're not telling me?" 

"Probably because you have a suspicious nature," Xander acknowledged.  He didn't add that she was correct in her suspicions.  He didn't need to.

"It's all tied together, isn't it?  The dreams I've been having; the changes I'm going through; all the weird shit that's happening lately.  It's not just a coincidence."

"It never is," Xander lamented.  "Which is why I need to know:  Do you remember anything else from the dreams?"

"Now that you mention it, there is one other thing.  There was someone – a man I think – dressed in black."

"Do you remember anything else about him?  What he looked like?  Something he said?"

"Not really.  I never got a good look at his face, and I don't recall him ever saying anything in any of the dreams.  I think he had a tattoo, though…. on his neck, I think."  She glanced apologetically at Xander, her mouth forming a smile that didn't quite extend to her eyes.  "I know that's probably not much help, but it's all I can remember."

_A tattoo?  It couldn't be…could it_?  Xander forced himself to smile in return.  "You might be surprised, Dawn.  Tell me, this tattoo, did it by any chance resemble an upside-down v connected to an x?"

Dawn blinked in surprise.  "Now that you mention it, yeah, it did…. with little circles at each point.  How did you know?"

Now they were getting somewhere.  "Call it a lucky guess."

Dawn wasn't quite that obtuse.  "Lucky guess my ass_. _You know something.  What does it mean?"     __

"What it means, Dawn is that we're finally going to get some answers."

"And we're going to do that how?"

"_We _are not going to do anything.  _Xander_ is going to do it alone."  The finality of the statement told Dawn there was no point in arguing.

"Fine," Dawn conceded, running a hand through her disheveled hair.  She debated checking out her appearance in the vanity mirror, but opted not to, knowing full well she sported a severe case of bed-head.  "So tell me, what is _Xander _going to do?"

"I'm gonna see a man about a tattoo."

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, we go to Giles' and you tell everybody what you just told me, except for the part about our tattooed friend in black."

"So basically you want me to lie?"

"Lying is such an ugly word, Dawnie.  I prefer to think of it as temporarily withholding unsubstantiated information."

Dawn's eyes narrowed visibly, appraising Xander through narrow slits.  "And they say your generation has no values."

"It's a common misconception," Xander conceded diffidently.  "We have values; we just tend to ignore them whenever convenient.  Fortunately, I manage to keep a positive attitude about my destructive habits."

"I see.  So what do I get in return?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me.  If I keep this little secret, what do I get in return?"

"Who said you were getting anything?"

Dawn smiled evilly.  "Blackmail's a terrible thing, Xander."

"I never said anything about blackmail."

The smile grew wider.  "I know.  But since I'm planning on blackmailing you, I thought I'd bring up the subject."

Xander stared at her in utter shock, mouth agape.  "Whatever happened to that sweet little girl I knew?"

Dawn shrugged it off.  "TV, rock-n-roll, the Internet.  I think the Hellmouth might also be a bad influence. Before you know it, I'll be having "the sex" and doing "the drugs".

Xander wasn't exactly comfortable discussing the "s" word with Dawn, so he opted to change the subject.  "And what makes you think I'll give in to your little blackmail scheme?"

She'd thought that much was obvious.  "Because, you evidently know something that you don't want Buffy to find out.  Fortunately for you, I trust your intentions enough not to go running directly to Buffy…. at least, as long as you're willing to play by my rules."

"What's to keep me from telling Buffy about your plans for Spike?"

Dawn had anticipated that argument.  "For one thing, you gave me your word.  And two, you want Spike dead just as much as I do.  With Buffy on the "Right to Un-Life" bandwagon, what are the odds she'd just stand aside and let us dust him?"

The girl had a point.  "Just so we're clear, Dawn, you do know that you're evil?"

"The evilest," she agreed with a grin.  Getting her way always improved Dawn's mood.

"So lay it on me.  What's the going rate for blackmail these days?"

That was an easy one.  "Dinner and a movie."

Judging by Xander's reaction, the price was just a little too steep.  "No way in hell."

Dawn could play it that way as well.  "Fine," she said, reaching into her purse, pulling out her cell phone.  "I'll just call Buffy…"

Game, set and match to Dawn.  "All right you little criminal.  You win.  But I have two rules:  Number one – other than any hormone-ridden teenage girls you're trying to impress, you swear to tell absolutely no one about this; and number two – absolutely, positively, no funny business.  No holding hands, no copping a feel, no nothing.  I love you, but I'm not going to jail for you."

"Whatever you say," Dawn agreed cheerfully.  "And don't feel bad; you'll be doing a good deed by immeasurably improving my social standing.  I'll even let you pick the movie."  She was feeling especially magnanimous at this point.

"Great," Xander groaned, picturing the potential fallout.  "I've gone from White Knight to eye candy in the space of a few minutes.  Your sister's gonna think I'm some kind of pervert."

Dawn smiled sympathetically.  "If it makes you feel any better, she already knows you're a pervert.  But for some reason, she still likes you."

"And strangely enough, I don't feel any better."

"Look on the bright side Xand," Dawn countered as they pulled onto Giles' street.  "There's a good chance the world's gonna come to an end in the near future, in which case you won't have to go through with any of this."

Now that made Xander feel better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**1629 Revello**

The same time 

Buffy ascended the stairs four at a time, her feet barely making contact with the thinly carpeted surface of every fourth step.  She was halfway to the top when another shot rang out, its report echoing loudly within the confining walls of the fifty-year-old bungalow.  Already, Buffy knew what had happened.

Even as she'd torn through the front door, Buffy was aware that the sniper was not the only one lurking in the house.  Though she wasn't sure how, Buffy had sensed the presence of two people inside, an ability she'd never before possessed, but wasn't about to question.  As Giles had frequently told her, "_fortune favors the brave."_

Bounding effortlessly up the few remaining steps, she was now distinctly aware of only one beating heart – other than her own, that is.  Why that was, she didn't care.  After all, it only tilted the odds in her favor.    Mindful of that fact, she hit the top step at an angle, wedging her left foot between the wall and second-floor landing, propelling her body to the right, in the direction of the door where she'd sensed the human presence.  Tucking her upper torso in close, she somersaulted through the open doorway, swiftly coming to her feet as the lone gunman swung his weapon in her direction.  Before the man could squeeze off a shot, she seized the forearm of his gun hand, wrenching it violently inward, forcing the man's upper body perpendicular to hers as she twisted his arm behind him, effectively trapping the gun.  Her captive, as if sensing the futility of the situation, did not resist, obediently dropping the firearm onto the carpeted floor.

And then, things got weird…er.

She spun the man around to get a look at him, and was shocked as she took in his familiar features.

"Wesley?"

The man smiled at her meekly.  "Alive and well, dislocated shoulder notwithstanding."

Buffy stared at him dumbfounded, surprised to see the man after so long, especially under these circumstances.  "What the hell are you doing here?"

_The more things changed…_  "It's good to see you too, Buffy."

"I asked you a question."

"Would you believe saving your life?"  Judging by the look on her face, she wasn't buying it.  Which was too bad, as it happened to be the truth.  At least, that had been his intention, if not the eventual outcome.

"And you were hoping to do that how?  And for that matter, how did you even know my life was in danger?"

"I was a _little_ late," Wesley conceded.  "As for the rest, well, it's rather a long and drawn out story, I'm afraid.  All in all, you don't appear any the worse for wear."

"No thanks to you…. or him," Buffy pointed out, gesturing to the corpse sprawled out on the floor.  "I don't suppose it occurred to you that I might want to take him alive?  Dead men generally aren't very forthcoming with the details."

"I had planned to offer him tea and scones," Was admitted somewhat facetiously, "but assassins tend to be rather disagreeable types."

"Kind of like Watchers?"

"More than you think," Wesley confirmed with the hint of a smile. "It turns out that our recently deceased friend here is – or was – a Watcher."

Buffy's jaw nearly hit the floor.  "He's a Watcher?"

Wesley nodded.  "Until about a minute ago.  I think we can safely consider him retired."

Buffy rolled her eyes in frustration.  "God…what is it with you guys?  What side are you on?"

"There's a lot you don't know, Buffy.  Times have changed.  And in case you'd forgotten, I'm no longer a Watcher."

"Way to state the obvious there, Wes.  Maybe you could give me something useful for a change?"

Patience was an art; one that Wesley had taken the time to learn.  "I think perhaps our first order of business is to vacate the premises; the rest can wait.  Unless of course, you care to explain this mess to Sunnydale's finest?"  

That wasn't really an option, at least not a pleasant one.  "You have a car out back?" Buffy asked, her enhanced hearing discerning the faint sound of approaching sirens.

"After you," Wesley insisted, gesturing chivalrously toward the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Somewhere in Northern California**

The four men walked in lockstep, similarly attired and sporting identical black shooters' glasses, their footsteps echoing loudly in the barren concrete and cinder block structure known simply as Ward S.  Nobody took any special note of their passage, save perhaps a few emaciated mice scrounging about for whatever crumbs could be found.  But the men weren't here for the vermin, at least not the four-legged kind.  As distasteful as their mission was, they were here for the lone human inhabitant of the Segregation Unit at the Northern California Facility for Women's Correction, or – as it was known to its less enthusiastic residents – NO FUCK.

Sitting alone in her cell, the raven-haired occupant of Ward "S" paid the approaching party little attention.  A passing glance at the men had told her all she needed to know:  Cheap suits, dark glasses, stoic expressions…. obviously cops.  She'd seen enough of them over the past few years; she doubted these would be any different than the rest.  

Of course, it wouldn't be the first time Faith had been wrong, and it wasn't likely to be the last.

As the men drew closer, two of their number reached inside open jackets and unsnapped the buttons on their hip holsters, their right hands resting cautiously on the butt of each weapon.  The warning had been explicit in that regard:  _Take no chances with this one.  _Not that any of them would have any way.  There was a reason they'd been selected for this assignment.  All four were Deputy U.S. Marshals, each with no fewer than ten years on the job.  And all four had fired their weapons in the line of duty, resulting in a corresponding number of deceased bad guys.  None was the least bit reticent about doing so again, which was the primary reason they were here.

But as seasoned as they were, not one of them had ever drawn an assignment quite like this.  They were, mind you, law _enforcement_ agents.  And despite the irregularities of the current situation, they intended to do just that, albeit in the manner proscribed by the legal document the senior agent carried with him.  After all, at the end of the day, they served the law of the United States of America, and by default, its Chief Executive.  And if he decreed that prisoner #121675 should cease to exist, who were they to argue?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Fort Sentinel Army Base**

**Sunnydale California**

In military circles the concept was known as _low observable technology_, the capability to deny one's enemies either visual or technical acquisition of one's own tactical military assets.  To the public at large it was known simply as stealth, a term evocative of billion-dollar aircraft rendered invisible to enemy radar.  But what the public seldom acknowledged was that the military's interest in stealth technology wasn't limited to airframe applications, nor did it necessarily entail the judicious expenditure of defense funds. 

The Pentagon's newest weapon hadn't even been developed in America, at least not the initial technology application.  A research scientist in Japan had taken the initial steps, experimenting with the use of fiber-optics to create – if not invisibility per se – then at lest the appearance of such.  The DoD had taken it one step further, fusing next generation reactive battle armor with active optical camouflage in its revolutionary NGBA, or Next Generation Battle Armor.

The stealth aspect of it was surprisingly simple in its concept.  Miniature outward-facing fiber optic cameras were mounted at regular intervals on the new prototype armor.  When activated, the cameras on one side of the armor application would project a live image to the reflective material on the opposite side, in essence creating the illusion that one could see through the armor.  It wasn't a perfect system by any stretch of the imagination.  An observer could still see a "ghost" image of the armored soldier, and the projected images were not perfect 3-D replications.  But from a distance, in low light situations, the system made detection extremely difficult, even to the trained eye.

Which is exactly what the members of Task Force 20 were counting on.

Not that they weren't already experts in the art of concealment.  TF-20, casually referred to by its members as _Whispering Death, _was composed of the best of the best.  Most of its members were drawn from the elite Special Operations community, primarily Delta Force and Seal Team-6, with one or two spooks thrown in for obvious reasons.  Collectively, they weren't the type to look a gift horse in the mouth.  If the new armor gave them an edge over the enemy, especially an enemy the likes of which they had never faced before, so much the better.  It was their lives on the line, after all.

As it was, the armor had already been tested in real-world conditions, primarily against vampires (whose vision was far more acute than that of any potential human adversary), but also against various other species of demon.  It did have its limitations, as proven in daylight tests.  But overall, it had thus far proven to be a resounding success.  Of course, the real test was yet to come.

Currently, the fifty-plus men of TF-20 were gathered in a nondescript room, undergoing one final mission pre-brief before being unleashed on the underworld denizens of Sunnydale.  They were all volunteers, having enlisted individually for a mission they were initially told nothing about, save that it was a "matter of grave national security", which each of them had heard on any number of previous missions.  As they had come to understand, this time J-SOC (Joint Special Operations Command) wasn't just feeding them a line.

A full-bird Colonel walked up to the podium, resplendent in his dress uniform, several rows of highly polished combat decorations gleaming on his chest.  He surveyed the assemblage with a great sense of pride.  Many of these men and women were young enough to be his children, two of which were currently serving in the Marine Corps, a fact which a number of his contemporaries found quite amusing, given the man's twenty years of service in the US Army.  Fortunately, inter-service rivalries ceased to exist in this room, with the exception of an enhanced sense of competition among the troops, which only succeeded in enhancing the _esprit-de corps _between the members of TF-20.  As a picture of an attractive twentyish blonde women appeared on the two oversized screens behind him, the Colonel addressed his troops.

"Good Afternoon ladies and gentlemen.  The following briefing is classified Top-Secret, not for dissemination to foreign nationals."  He paused, glancing briefly at the image projected behind him.  "By now you have all been briefed on the situation unfolding in Sunnydale."  Fifty heads nodded in unison, confirming his statement.  The Colonel continued.  "Inside your briefing folders you will find the latest intelligence estimates and overhead imagery concerning our target objectives.  Please review and memorize these at the earliest possible convenience."  He didn't need to remind them that each and every copy would be incinerated prior to deployment.  

"You have already been given the bad news; I am here today to tell you the good news."  He gestured to the figure on the screens, accompanied by the sound of rustling papers as each soldier opened his/her folder to find a similar digital photograph.  "The woman you are looking at is Elizabeth Anne "Buffy" Summers, age twenty-two.  You may find yourself asking what is so impressive about this young woman, other than her physical attributes.  Allow me answer that question for you.  Each of you has been instructed in great detail on the nature of the threat in Sunnydale.  You know all about the paranormal presence here, and have proven yourselves capable of tracking and engaging a number of these threats.  You may even consider yourselves experts in that regard, and no one could fault you for doing so.  However, let me assure you that your capabilities and experience pale in regard to those of Miss Summers."  

That statement raised a few eyebrows.

"Buffy Summers is not a soldier.  She carries no firearms, and has had no formal training.  She doesn't even have a college degree.  But what this young lady has is seven years experience in fighting the otherworldly menace."

That statement raised a few more.

"You see, Miss Summers is not like you and I.  While she is human, there is something that makes her different than us.  She is what is known as a Vampire Slayer."  

By now a few disbelieving murmurs could be heard around the room.  They were quickly silenced by a stern look from the Colonel.  "I will not bore you with all the details.  They are not relevant to the task at hand, though there are a few things that you all should know.  Miss Summers, by virtue of her birthright as a Vampire Slayer, possesses enhanced physical capabilities.  She is considerably stronger than any human being, by a factor of at least ten, if not more.  Her speed and agility exceed that of any vampire, and her body has greatly accelerated healing capabilities.  Her senses are extremely acute, and it is widely believed, though not substantiated, that she possesses some manner of precognition.  Now, you may find all of this hard to believe, but consider that just three weeks ago none of you believed in the existence of vampires.  I can personally attest to Miss Summer's prowess.  If not for her, my own daughter would not be alive today."

He paused for a moment, deliberating on whether or not to tell them the rest, which, of course, he did.  "Undoubtedly many of you have heard the rumors floating about regarding our adversaries.  I tell you now that some of those rumors are in fact true.  While our primary objective will be to neutralize the standard HSTs, you will likely run across an enemy none of us has ever encountered before, that is, those referred to in the intelligence briefings as "The Fallen".  I cannot confirm whether or not the scuttlebutt regarding their origin is factual.  But I will let you in on a little known secret:  Those bastards aren't going to know what hit them."

 "I don't know if we can kill them.  I don't even know for sure if we can even hurt them.  But what I do know is that we are the meanest group of motherfuckers this side of hell.  If these "Fallen" sons-of-bitches want a fight, we'll damn well give it to them.  We will hit them with everything we've got, and then we'll hit them with some more.  If need be, we'll reign down fire and brimstone on their sorry asses.  We'll go medieval on them, and then we'll introduce them to the twenty-first century, courtesy of the US of A.   Gentlemen, you will have every weapon at your disposal.  For once, the Air Force will be at your beck and call.  The Marine Corps will be ready at a moment's notice to unleash an artillery barrage that will make those evil fuckers shit their pants.  And when the shit hits the fan and our backs are against the wall, Miss Summers and her band of merry warriors will be there right beside you."

"Of course, with the exception of one person, none of her group knows about our impending operation."  He clicked the remote, flipping to the next picture.  The face of Alexander Harris graced the screens behind the Colonel.  "This man is Alexander Harris, a close friend of the Slayer.  He is the only on of their number aware of this operation.  He will be our eyes and ears with regard to the civilian side of our offensive.  I am told Mr. Harris has some military background.  I do not know the details or extent of his training, but do not doubt what I have been told.  Also, please keep in mind that the Slayer and her group have had previous experience in dealing with military operations, though I am told it did not impress favorably upon Miss Summers.  In spite of that fact, it is believed that she will cooperate with our operation, provided we do not get in her way or unnecessarily endanger the civilian population."  The Colonel looked directly at the soldiers.  "I know all of you are unaccustomed to assuming this type of role.  I am sure you would rather assume the mission of primary assault force, as would I.  But given the nature of the opposition, that is not a realistic option."

"Now, before we proceed with introducing you to the rest of the Slayer's crew, let me tell you a few additional things about our unconventional allies.  While NCA would not divulge the origin of the main threat, they did assure me that at least one of their kind is working on our side, and is already in place in Sunnydale.  I cannot readily confirm that this is true, but my superiors have assured me that the source of this information has been rated 5-5 in reliability and dependability.  I have no reason to question this assessment.  Let me also share with you a few other things regarding the Slayer.  Number one, she has never lost.  On no fewer than six occasions, she has forestalled an extinction level event.  Take a moment and let that sink in, people.  A young girl and her friends saved the world _six times._"  That revelation, in addition to raising quite a few eyebrows, caused more than a few jaws to drop.  What he said next left an even bigger impression.  "And if you still have any doubts about the Slayer's motivation, allow me to put them to rest.  Fifteen months ago, before any of you even knew the boogeyman existed, Buffy Summers sacrificed her own life to save this world."

A stunned silence fell upon the room, the incongruity of the Colonel's claim not lost on any of the soldiers.

In spite of himself, the Colonel couldn't help but smile.  It wasn't often that one could elicit this kind of reaction from such hardened individuals as those that comprised TF-20.  "Right now you're asking yourself how this is possible.  Allow me to introduce you to another member of the Slayer's group."  He clicked the remote once more, bringing up a picture of a stunning redheaded woman.  "Gentlemen, meet Willow Rosenberg."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End Chapter 16.  As always, feedback is the gift that keeps on giving…. kind of like syphilis, only without the blindness and insanity.  Rest assured that Chapter 17 is in the works, and the action should begin ramping up, and this time I mean it.  Look for more from the mysterious Danyael, as well as a guest appearance from everybody's favorite brunette Slayer.  And if you ask nicely, maybe I'll even throw in a little Buffy-Xander Hallmark moment (which I've already written, but am withholding due to my evil nature).

Until Next Time,

Rabid Squirrel


	17. And the Truth Shall Set You Free

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaime__r:_ I own nothing, save a pack of cigarettes and a few half empty vials of weapons-grade anthrax.  Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox, and UPN.  And they call me sick.

_Summary:_ Alternate version of season 7:  The real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the entire human race. 

_Spoilers__:_ (BTVS) Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.   Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3.

_Rating:_R, for violence, strong language, and limited sexual content. 

_Feedback:_ If you have the time and the inclination, so be it.  If not, quit downloading midget amputee porn for a minute and drop me a line anyway.

_Note 1:_  Incessantly plagued by what passes for a conscience, I feel obligated to apologize for the last chapter.  Its "suck factor" was exceedingly high, even by my recent standards.  Needless to say, my drunken muse will be severely reprimanded (i.e. spanked), and I swear on my trusty Bartender's Bible to never again post such a crappy chapter…except for this one.

_Dedication_: To my id, for telling me to go after it; my ego, for telling me I probably couldn't have it; and my superego, for remaining silent throughout the whole affair.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Words of Wisdom:_

"We cannot enter into alliances until we are acquainted with the designs of our neighbors" – Sun Tzu

**Summary thru Chapter 16:  **I thought I'd take a moment to bring everyone up to speed, if that's all right with you….

Following her death in season 5, Buffy was brought back from the dead, ostensibly by Willow, who's now having doubts about whether or not she was actually the one responsible.  Xander already knows better.  Speaking of Willow and Xander – in a moment of weakness, they gave in to their more carnal instincts, seeking solace (and a little nookie) in each other's arms.  Oh, and by the way, Anya's no longer in the picture; it's just easier that way.  Follow me so far?  Fine.  Dandy.  Let's move on.

In the meantime, there are a few newcomers to Sunnydale, some more welcome than others.  The mysterious Danyael has made a guest appearance, bearing an object of great power, as well as somewhat cryptic intentions.  He wasted no time in introducing himself to the local demon population, much to the chagrin of a misfortunate bull demon.  Danyael also brought with him a pair of furry friends, preternatural beasts that saved Dawn and her friend from a pack of hungry vamps.  Unfortunately for Dawn's friend, it was only a temporary stay of execution.

Spike has returned to his old haunts, recently en-souled, and carrying a giant chip on his shoulder.  He slaughtered the crew of the freighter he arrived on, then proceeded to sire Dawn's friend Stacey, who in turn snacked on Dawn.  Dawn survived the attack – though she was clinically dead for a few minutes – and proceeded to make a miraculous recovery, which was no doubt due in part to some recently acquired powers.  

While this was all unfolding, Giles received some bad news from an old friend.  Apocalypse anyone?  We've also learned that a number of world governments are aware of the pending doomsday, and are taking steps to address the issue, as are our old friends at Wolfram & Hart.  The American military has mounted an operation to lend assistance to the Scooby Gang, who, individually, have no idea what is going on…. except maybe for Xander.  

Mr. Harris, it seems, has kept a few secrets from his friends.  We've discovered that Xander somehow knows Whistler, the Balance Demon who made an appearance in BTVS season 2.  The two apparently had a clandestine meeting to discuss Buffy's fate, which appears to be not so rosy.  Oh, and Willow overhead part of the conversation, and proceeded to share the news with Giles.  Both are anxiously waiting to see how things shake out.

The Watcher's council is having an even worse time.  The head of the council absconded to LA, defecting to the other side with the Watcher's secrets in tow.  The rest of the council is in shambles as the Anglican Church and the Vatican, in concert with the Allied Forces, have mounted a hostile takeover, intending to install Rupert Giles as the new head of the Watchers.

The main target of this new world alliance is a new enemy known as "The Fallen", a group of powerful beings about which little is known, but of which much is surmised.  The Leader of the Fallen has arrived in Sunnydale, and apparently has a history with Danyael, as the two prepare to take opposite sides in the coming war.

And then there's Buffy, who's adapting to a few changes of her own.  Her already considerable powers seem to be growing by the day, and her usual prophetic dreams have become even more so as of late.  To top things off, our resident Slayer is grappling over some newfound, or should I say recently surfaced, feelings for Xander, who does not seem to reciprocate, despite some none-too-subtle prodding from Dawn and Willow.

And now, some old friends have entered the picture as well, including Wesley Wyndham-Price, who recently popped up in Sunnydale to forestall an assassination attempt on Buffy.  He seems to know a little something about what's going on, but so far isn't saying much.  Oh, and our second-string Slayer – the incomparable Faith – is waiting in the wings, provided she succeeds in surviving the next few minutes.

That about sums it up.  And to think, it took me sixteen chapters just to say that!

At any rate, on to Chapter 17….

**Chapter 17:  "And the Truth Shall Set You Free**"

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By all accounts, it was a subdued reunion.

As the Dodge pulled up to the curb, Buffy and Willow emerged from the house, coming down the sidewalk to meet them.  Their concern was readily apparent, the worry plainly written on their faces, albeit for different reasons.  Both were obviously concerned about Dawn's well-being, given what she'd gone through that day.  But Willow had an additional burden to bear as well.  And being this close to Buffy, standing beside her, knowing what she knew, wasn't making it any easier for her.  But for now, she would put her discomfort aside; all that mattered at the moment was Dawn.  

The hard part for both Buffy and Willow was in knowing what to say.  Even though both had been in this position before, the words didn't come to them any easier.  At the very least, experience had taught them one thing; nobody would bother with the usual platitudes; nothing they could say would have helped, would have done anything to attenuate the pain Dawn was feeling.  Not that that it really mattered.  At times like these no words were necessary…. not with the people you truly loved.

No sooner had Dawn stepped from the truck than she was swept up into a fierce hug, pulled into the comforting embrace of her sister's arms.  They held each other for a long moment, relishing the sensation, reassured that for one brief moment in time, at least one thing was right in the world.

But other things weren't so right, not by a long-shot.

Xander emerged from the driver's side to find Willow waiting for him.  They also hugged, though the hesitation in Willow's embrace suggested something less than utter relief at Xander's safe return.  Her reticence did not go unnoticed by Xander, though he dismissed it as merely a symptom of an overly trying day.  He had no reason to suspect otherwise.

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**Northern California Facility for Women's Correction**

**The same time**

Everybody had their price.

Some would deny it, obstinately refusing to believe that their principles could be compromised by something as trivial and as fleeting as money.  And some of them would be right, those few whose convictions were so strong as to resist the temptation of any bribe or threat levied on them.  But as Faith would soon find out, Deputy U.S. Marshal McMichaels wasn't one of those people.

It was his gambling habit that had ultimately decided it.  Deputy McMichaels was fond of only two things in life:  One of those was his job, where he on occasion felt that he was making a difference; the other was the ponies.  As he'd come to learn, his first love didn't exactly mesh well with the other, at least from a financial standpoint.  It was one thing to enjoy gambling at the track, as he most certainly did.  It was quite another to be good at it, which he most certainly wasn't.  At least not of late.

McMichaels was by nature a man of action, and with eighty thousand dollars in gambling debts and two mortgages on his house, he'd decided the time had come to act.  In that regard it was easy.  All it took was a discrete phone call to a certain female lawyer, a few minutes of haggling over the arrangements, and it was done.   Richer by one million dollars, poorer the loss of one soul, he'd committed himself to a course of action that he nonetheless intended to see through, regardless of the consequences.

The hard part was in choosing the right time.  Given his present assignment, he had both opportunity and means.  What he didn't have was a viable exit strategy, at least one that left him alive to enjoy his newfound wealth.  Eliminating the target would be the easy part, a simple matter of putting a few rounds in the subject's x-ring.  It was what happened afterwards that presented a challenge.  There would be three armed agents to deal with, at least one of whom would already have his sidearm drawn.  And while he was adequately convinced he could get the drop on the other ready gunman given the element of surprise, he had no doubt about his chances against the remaining two.  These men were trained to react, and would have no qualms about shooting one of their own, as soon as he revealed himself as a traitor.  More than anything else, that realization gave him pause.  The consummate gambler – at least in his own mind – McMichaels knew a sucker bet when he saw one.  

The four men continued down the corridor, dutifully following the pathway delineated by the faded yellow tape.  None of them spoke; each lost in thought, three of their number wondering how in the world it had come to this, and the fourth how he was ever going to get out of this alive.  They marched the last few feet to the cell, eyes firmly affixed on its notorious occupant.  As a group they came to a stop, halting directly in front of the locked door, two side arms trained on the potentially dangerous prisoner inside.  The senior man among them stepped forward, reaching deliberately into his suit coat with his right hand.

From behind steel bars, Faith observed the situation with mild interest.  The drawn weapons had caught her attention, though with her reputation it wasn't exactly a unique experience.  More than one cop had drawn on her, a source of continuing amusement in which she also took a perverse pride.  Faith wasn't exactly worried, not any more than usual.  If someone wanted her dead – and more than a few inside here did – there were more subtle ways to go about it.  

Despite popular opinion, it wasn't as if she had some kind of death wish.  To those who didn't know her well – and in all honesty, very few did – the Slayer usually came off as a die-hard fatalist.  No one could really be faulted for holding to that belief, given that it was technically correct, after a fashion.

Faith had long ago accepted that certain things were beyond her control, that despite her best efforts and intentions she couldn't escape certain universal truths.  Part of it was the whole Slayer destiny; part her less than idyllic upbringing.  The irony in all of this was that the same mindset that precipitated her fall into darkness had ultimately allowed her to pull herself up from the depths to which she had sunk.  Not that she had suddenly found religion.  Faith didn't harbor any illusions about her innate spirituality.  She didn't for one minute subscribe to a belief in any God, even if, at the end of the day, she feared his eventual judgment.  But she had come to believe in something else, something nearly as powerful.  Faith Mackenzie – Slayer, hell raiser, and convicted murderer – had come to believe in the power of redemption.  And that had made all the difference.

She stood to face her visitors, strangely at peace with herself, projecting an aura of serenity that would have surprised the others had they been prescient enough to sense it.  Whatever fate lie in store, she was ready to face it.  Not as a Slayer, nor as a convict, but simply as Faith, reformed citizen and member of the human race.

Indifferent to Faith's newfound sense of tranquility, her uninvited guests moved quickly to complete their mission.  The man nearest her reluctantly removed his hand from his coat, clenching a sealed envelope, which he extended into the cell, holding it out to Faith.

"What's this?" she asked evenly, taking the proffered package from him.

The man removed his dark sunglasses, locking eyes with the Slayer.   "It's the best deal you're ever going to get."

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**Giles' House**

The Brady Bunch, they weren't.

Following their abbreviated reunion, the Scoobies had reconvened inside Giles' house.  The events of that morning, though still far from forgotten, had been set-aside for the time being.  They had other business to attend to.

The group now sat arrayed in the living room, largely preoccupied with their own thoughts, casting the occasional accusatory glance at one another.  Xander had staked out his usual spot on the couch, settling uncomfortably into the permanent depression on the ancient seat cushion. Dawn nestled close by his side, instinctively forming a de-facto buffer between him and her sister, who sat rigidly in the armchair immediately to Dawn's left.  Buffy's eyes never left Xander, save to glance briefly at her sister, constantly seeking unspoken reassurance that she was ok; Xander's eyes never met hers.

Willow, on the other hand, was entirely too nervous to sit, given what she knew, or, at least, believed she knew.  The redhead leaned unobtrusively against the kitchen wall, her gaze darting back and forth between her oldest friend and her best friend, never quite settling on either.  Giles stood nearby, keeping one watchful eye on his young protégé, the other on his former colleague, who had taken up position behind the Slayer, not really looking at anyone, an inscrutable expression on his face.  If not for the fact that nobody was talking, it seemed just like old times.

Not that those old times were all that great.  Time has a funny way of distorting one's perception of the past, of making it seem better in retrospect than it really was, especially when the present wasn't all that appealing in comparison.  Of course, time wasn't something the assembled group likely had a lot of at the present, and the past was…. well, the past was just that, a fact Rupert Giles was all too aware of.  Out of necessity – and to some degree boredom – he reluctantly broke the silence.

"While the last thing I wish to do is ruin a perfectly good moment of peace and quiet, I wonder if perhaps our time together might be better spent discussing the current situation?"  Giles wasn't the least bit surprised by the deafening silence that greeted the question, nor the cynical looks cast his way.  "Well then," he remarked, clearing his throat, "since I seem to be the only one presently capable of speech, I suppose I'll volunteer to go first."  Moving from his spot on the wall, he ambled over to the nearby bookcase, where he selected a large, leather-bound book from among his eclectic library.  Returning to the center of the room, he unceremoniously dropped the book on the coffee table, settling into the chair opposite Xander and Dawn.  

"Do any of you have even the slightest idea what this is?" he asked of the group, gesturing toward the weathered volume.

"I'm guessing…a book?  A really big book."  Despite her all too recent ordeal, Dawn's sense of humor seemed to have come through largely intact.

Giles grimaced visibly at the girl's blatant sarcasm.  If he'd ever had any doubts that she was Buffy's sister, she'd just put them to rest for all time.  "Thank you ever so much for that keen observation," he remarked evenly to the teenager, consciously checking what under other circumstances would have been a biting retort.   "All appearances to the contrary, I assure you this is much more than just "a really big book", as Dawn so succinctly put it.  It is a prophecy of sorts, an account of the history of the world, and one possible course for its future."

All of which sounded vaguely familiar to Buffy, if uncomfortably so.  "So we're talking what here?  Codex Redux?  Forgive my utter lack of enthusiasm for all things sequel, but I'm pretty sure I know how this one ends."

She wasn't alone in that regard.  "I'm gonna have to side with the Buffster on this one," Xander agreed, still ardently avoiding Buffy's gaze.  "I mean, is it just me, or are all these prophecies written by the same person?"

"It's just you," Wesley assured him; naively assuming the boy hadn't changed one bit since he'd last seen him.  "As I suspect Rupert already knows, this prophecy wasn't even written by a person."

Wesley's admission came as only a marginal surprise to Giles, but a surprise nonetheless.  "And how exactly did you know that?" he questioned the other Brit, his curiosity piqued.

"I have my ways," the ex-Watcher revealed, alluding to his source within Wolfram & Hart.   "Despite what you all may think, I assure you I can be quite charming when I want to be."

"I guess the urge just never struck before, huh"" Buffy surmised, flashing a bright smile at Wesley, who didn't return the gesture.

"Can we please just stick to the subject at hand?"  Giles requested patiently.  "I realize this may all seem second nature by now; nonetheless, it is quite a serious matter."

"Is this the part where you tell us that the world's going to end?" Willow asked.  "'Cause that's starting to wear a little on the thin side." 

"It is lacking in the shock value department." Of course, Xander hadn't read the book, or he might believe otherwise.  

"Perhaps you'll feel otherwise when I tell you what the prophecy has to say," cautioned Giles, even though he had no intention of doing so, at least not completely.  Not yet.

"Well then, don't keep us in suspense G-Man," Xander prodded.  "Tell us what's in the _Prophecy for Dummies_.  Are we talking Armageddon, or just your everyday garden-variety apocalypse?"

"We'll get to that," Giles promised him, his voice showing just a hint of irritation, "and for the love of God, will you please stop calling me that dreadful nickname?"  He affixed Xander with a cold stare.  Xander, for his part, at least looked chastened.

Giles continued.  "But first allow me to give you a little background on the purported author.  Wesley has correctly noted that the prophecy was not written by a human hand.  I can also tell you with utmost certainty that it is not of a demonic nature."

"I may be way off the mark here," Willow freely admitted, "but doesn't that just about eliminate, well, pretty much everybody?"

"So it would seem," acknowledged Giles.  "Nevertheless, there do exist other classes of beings, creatures other than just humans and demons.  According to legend, this text was written by just such a creature, a higher being if you will, one who had fallen from favor with the Powers that Be."

Dawn didn't follow.  "Could you please dumb that down a bit for those of us who don't have a degree from Watcher U?" 

"Translated into American:  The prophecy was written by a fallen angel."  Contrary to popular belief, Buffy was not a natural blond, though that was an issue for her hairstylist, and not really germane to the issue at hand.

"An angel?  As in wings, harps, and cheesy elevator music?"  That part came as a bit of a surprise to Xander.  Whistler hadn't exactly been generous with the details.

"That's the rumor," Wesley supplied offhand, "if you believe in that sort of thing.  It hasn't exactly been substantiated."

"Whether or not it's been proven is irrelevant for our immediate purposes," Giles interjected.  "What matters is what the prophecy portends."

"Which I'm sure you were planning on sharing with us at some point," Buffy pointed out.  "Seeing as how these prophecies have an annoying tendency to end with me dying."

As if Dawn needed to be reminded of that.  "You promised, Buffy.  Remember?  The five-year moratorium on death?  We have a deal."

Buffy couldn't help but smile.  "I remember, Dawn.  And fully I intend to keep that promise.  No more dirt naps for this Slayer, at least not until I'm old and wrinkly, and surrounded by fat grandchildren."

"I think we can all agree that's for the best, fat grandchildren notwithstanding," agreed Giles.  "The question is how we go about ensuring that."

"In other words, it _does_ say that I'm going to die," Buffy clarified, suitably miffed.  "You know, just for once couldn't we stumble across a happy prophecy?  A warm fuzzy one that doesn't involve the world going poof?"

"When I find one, you'll be the first to know," Giles assured her.  "Until then, I suggest we put our heads together and devise a strategy."

"Easier said than done," Willow observed. "I mean, what do we really know, other than that some big bad has a major hard-on for the Hellmouth?"

"More than you might think," Wesley countered, stepping out from behind the Slayer, in more than one sense.  "For starters, we know that Wolfram & Hart is a major player in whatever's going down.  The word on the street is that they've formed an alliance with whatever dark power figures into the prophecy."

"Great," Buffy remarked acidly.  "So we know that the bad guys have teamed up with the worse guys.  Any other earth-shattering revelations you'd like to share, Wes?" 

Wesley resisted the urge to do just that, wisely choosing to refrain from playing the one card he still held in reserve.  The time would come to exercise that option, but that time was not yet upon them.  Until then he had a few other surprises up his sleeve.  "Try me."

"All right; I'll play along, Wes.  Go ahead and shock me."

"What do you want to know?"

"For starters, tell me about the Watcher's Council.  Where do they fit in to this mess?"

For a fleeting moment, Wesley's unresponsiveness seemed to confirm Buffy's suspicions, namely that she had called his bluff.  In truth, his reluctance to respond owed more to lingering regrets than to a lack of substance on his part.   Wesley may have borne a grudge against his parent organization, but he couldn't escape the pain he felt at seeing its destruction.  Despite his dissociation, the Watchers Council was, and would forever remain, a part of his legacy.  

At last Wesley spoke up, speaking two words none of them – save perhaps Giles – could rightfully have anticipated.  "They don't."  

And then, there was silence…. again.

Wesley took a deep breath, offering up an explanation no one really wanted to hear.  "The Council, as it were, no longer exists.  It seems our beloved leader Quentin has experienced a substantial change of heart in regard to his loyalties.  Last I'd heard, he's thrown his lot in with Wolfram & Hart, along with a few others on the Executive Committee."

Willow was the first to vocalize her thoughts.  "But what about the rest of the Watchers?" she asked, notably shaken, yet not the least bit surprised by the news. "Surely some of them can help."

"Undoubtedly, yes.  Some of them will be willing to do so, provided we can track them down.  In addition to Mr. Travers' defection, the Council has been experiencing a few other problems.  It seems that our favorite solicitors are taking no chances:  Those Watchers unwilling to come around to the new way of thinking have been either eliminated or driven underground."

"So basically what you're saying is that the really bad Watchers have gone over to the other side, and all of the others are either dead or in hiding?"  Xander wasn't sure whether that was a good or bad thing, or for that matter, just what the distinction was between a good Watcher and a bad one.  At this point, he didn't really care.

"In a manner of speaking.  It appears the council is under assault on all fronts.  A number of Quentin's most trusted advisors have inexplicably turned up dead, and the leaders of the major opposition faction within the council have made a bee-line for Washington D.C., allegedly escorted by British Intelligence."

"So we're talking world-wide conspiracy, much in the style of the X-Files?"  Xander knew a thing or two about conspiracies, though not as much as he thought he did.

"You're not far off the mark," Giles confirmed.  "This prophecy, the _Panopticon_, was given to me by an old friend, one who presently serves as legal counsel for none other than the Vatican.  He warned me in a letter that the world was taking sides, that this was bigger than either he or I could possibly imagine."

Xander had the sudden urge to make a joke at the expense of the Polish people, but for once tact prevailed…. in a manner of speaking.   "You're telling us the Pope's mixed up in this?  I didn't even know the old guy could slay."

Giles wasn't laughing.  "Public perception to the contrary, Xander, the Vatican does much more than merely dictate dogma to the Catholic Church.  For hundreds of years now they've maintained a working relationship with both the Watcher's Council and the heads of the major world religions.  They've been an integral part of the fight against evil since the Middle Ages."

"So in other words, the Pope _does_ kick some serious demon ass," Xander asserted.  "It makes sense if you think about it:  Only a bad mofo could wear that dorky little hat and not get his ass kicked."

"Xander," Giles admonished, rapidly tiring of the boy's humor, "the Pope has little to nothing to do with running the day-to-day activities of the church, especially their lesser known activities.  The Church has a separate committee responsible for coordinating the Vatican's special activities, which, by and large, consist mostly of providing financial resources and conducting academic research.  They do, however, maintain a small but effective contingent of operatives, comprised mostly members of the Swiss Guard from the Vatican's own security detail."

"So, at the risk of sounding redundant, you're telling us we've got an _evil_ law firm, a bunch of stuffy Watchers, the British government, and the Vatican involved in this so far," Willow summarized."

"Let's not forget our own government," Xander added.  "They can't be far behind.  Uncle Sam never met a war he didn't like."

"More than likely the American government is already involved," Giles acknowledged, mindful of the attack on W&H, and rightly suspecting that Xander already knew at least some of this.  "The question is what do they know, and how long have they known it."

"So we know who's involved on the human side," Willow said, ignoring the obvious conclusion to Giles' question, "But do we have any idea what exactly it is that we're facing?"  

Giles removed his glassed, rubbing his forehead in a fruitless effort to relieve the headache building within.  "From those portions of the text I've succeeded in translating, our primary adversary appears to be a group of beings known as "The Fallen"."

"As in Fallen Angels?" Dawn asked, making the connection.

Giles nodded.  "So it would seem."

"But wouldn't that make this a self-fulfilling prophecy, as opposed to a run-of-the-mill prophecy."

"I don't see how that makes a difference." Wesley admitted.

"It's simple," Dawn explained.  "If I tell you that you're going to die, and then proceed to shoot you dead, that doesn't mean I'm clairvoyant.  It just means that I wanted you dead."

"You're assuming that whoever wrote the prophecy is involved in the whole mess," Wesley countered.  "He or she may merely be an impartial observer."

"Dawn's got a point," said Buffy.  "What's the likelihood that some bad-seed angel prophesizes the end of the world and then just sits on the sidelines to watch it unfold?  If all of this is true – and for the record I'm not entirely convinced that it is – then there's a good chance that whoever wrote the prophecy is also part of it."

"I believe we might be jumping the gun just a bit," cautioned Giles.  "The tone of the prophecy's text, while certainly foreboding in its own right, actually seems to suggest that the author holds out some hope for this world; that he doesn't wish to see it destroyed."

"You expect us to believe that a fallen angel would actually repent his evil ways and fight for the forces of good?  I think you're taking this positive thinking thing just a smidgeon too far," cautioned Willow.

"Why not?" argued Giles.  "In case you'd forgotten, there was a time when I wasn't exactly a boy scout myself.  You don't see me casting in my lot with the forces of darkness."

"You did vote for Gore in the last election," Xander pointed out, unfazed by the look Giles shot him.  "But I do see your point.  We don't know for sure that whoever wrote this is actually a bad guy.  He may even be on our side."   On that point Xander was fairly confident.

"But this prophecy's really old, right?  Like thousands of years?" Buffy asked.  "We don't even know that the writer is still alive, or undead, or whatever the hell you'd call it."

"If, in fact the rumors are true regarding the identity of our illustrious author, then I think we can safely assume that he's still around.  Whether or not we can find him is another story."  Wesley was obviously the less optimistic of the two Watchers.

Xander's knew better.  "Let's assume for the sake of argument that he is still around, and that he doesn't want to destroy the world.  If that were the case, then he'd probably feel compelled to do something about it.  Think about it:  If you were in his shoes, where would you want to be right about now?"

Buffy knew where he was going with this.  "Right in the middle of the action.  Right here in beautiful downtown Sunnyhell."

Xander donned a fake smile, doing his best Bob Barker impersonation.  "We have a winner ladies and gentlemen.  Dawn, tell the lady what she's won."

The younger Summers didn't miss a beat.  "Our resident Slayer will be enjoying an extended, no-expense-paid vacation in beautiful sunny California, where the night life is anything but dead, and where she'll experience firsthand all the amenities a no-star Hellmouth has to offer."  Unlike Xander, Dawn didn't bother with a smile.  She wasn't yet far enough removed from the trauma of that morning.

"And you all say I have no luck," Buffy protested.

 "You have lots of luck," Willow reminded her.  "It just tends to be of the bad."

"Not really helping things, Will."

"Sorry.  Just wanted to keep things in perspective."

"Let's all attempt to keep our perspective, shall we?" Giles suggested, his eyes darting perceptibly in Dawn's direction. "I believe we have a few important matters left to discuss."

His glance did not go unnoticed.  Nor did the implicit suggestion.  "Hello?  Sitting right here.  Could you please at least make an attempt to acknowledge my existence?"  

Giles shifted his gaze to back Buffy, eyeing her accusingly.  "Explain to me again why she was taught to speak?"

"Don't look at me.  I would have been perfectly happy with a mute sister, but mom insisted."

Dawn crossed her arms ostentatiously, glaring at both of them.  "Again.  Sitting right here."

Xander finally interceded on her behalf.  "Why don't you just ask the question, Giles?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I think what Xander's saying is that you should just go ahead ask me why I'm alive and kicking and not chilling in the morgue with the other corpses."  As always, Dawn had a unique flair for directness.  

"Not that we're not all happy you're still among the living," Xander added, winking knowingly at the girl.

"Thank you."  Sometimes it was the little things that mattered most.

"Always glad to help."

"I hate to interrupt this little love fest," Wesley apologized insincerely, "but I believe Dawn was about to tell us about her less than miraculous recovery."

"It _could _have been a miracle," the teenager mumbled beneath her breath.  Despite her increasing maturity, she wasn't above pouting to get her way.

"Dawn…" Xander warned the girl, sensing where this was going.

"What?  Why does everyone automatically assume there's a logical explanation for this?  Am I somehow unworthy of a miracle?"

"Of course not, Dawnie" Buffy assured her.  "But you and I both know the truth, so you might as well come clean."

"This is all your fault, you know," Dawn complained, eyeing her sister with mock resentment.  "You and your damn Slayer bloodline."

"Okay, am I missing something here?" Willow asked, hoping she wasn't the only one hopelessly confused.

Sighing, Dawn let the others in on the poorly kept secret.  "Me, Key girl?  Flesh of Buffy?  She who slays demons and on occasion rises from the dead?"

"Wait a second," Wesley said.  "You're saying that she's…."

"Are we all on the same page now?" Xander asked.

"You already knew this." Giles said, not so much asking a question as he was stating a fact.

"As of about an hour ago…. yes.  Although I suspect Buffy and Dawn have known quite a bit longer."

"You could have told me," Giles objected to Dawn, embarrassed that he'd not anticipated such an eventuality.

"Could have.  Should have.  Didn't.  Pretty much a moot point now, wouldn't you say?"  Which, of course, he didn't.

From a scientific standpoint, Willow found the entire phenomenon utterly fascinating, if somewhat disturbing.  "You always wanted to be special," she congratulated Dawn, sharing a knowing smile with the teenager.  "But it does beg the question:  Are we talking full-fledged Slayer here, or just Slayer Lite?"  

Dawn glanced uncertainly at her sister, pondering how best to answer the question.  "I'm not really sure yet, Will.  Obviously I've got the whole accelerated healing thingy, and I seem to have some sort of sixth-sense when it comes to detecting vampires.  But not so much with the uber-strength, which pretty much sucks if you ask me."

"And these abilities just suddenly manifested?" asked Wesley.

"More or less," Dawn conceded.  "For a while now I could feel that something was different.  That night on the way to the bronze, I could sense that something of the bad was going to happen, even before the dust monkeys showed up.  But the nifty healing part seems to have just kicked in, and might I add, just in the nick of time."

"And the dreams?" asked Giles.

Dawn nodded in response.  "Yeah…them too.  If you ask me, that part's really overrated.  My dreams are strange enough without some weird ass prophetic visions screwing things up."

"What exactly did you dream about?" Giles prodded.

"Oh, you know, the usual:  Death, carnage, the end of the world, Xander."

"Xander?"  Buffy didn't like the sound of that.

Dawn shrugged.  "That may have been an entirely different dream."

The look in Buffy's eyes told the whole story.  "NEVER tell me."

"That goes double for the rest of us," Giles added hastily, casting a disbelieving look in Xander's direction as he tried desperately to rid himself of the disturbing mental image.  

"What?" Xander asked defensively.  "Is it my fault I happen to be the perfect male specimen?"

"Not exactly perfect," Willow observed from the other side of the room, "but close."

Wesley had heard enough.  "While I find this all endlessly fascinating, might I suggest we get back to our previous discussion before the projectile vomiting sets in?"

"I second that notion," Buffy added, not bothering to elaborate.  "Dawn, why don't you fill us in on your non-Xander related dreams."

"There's really not much to say," Dawn conceded.  "It was basically just a bunch of jumbled images, a lot of death, pain, suffering, and the token gratuitous violence.  But as I told Xander on the way over, there was one thing that stood out.  In all of the dreams there was this recurring voice, someone telling me that "they" were coming for me, that it was time for me to become."

"To become a Slayer," Giles deduced.

Dawn nodded.  "That was pretty much my impression.  And by extension, I'm guessing "they" would be these Fallen jokers."

Wesley began pacing the room, postulating aloud as he considered the new turn of events.  "So it seems we have a group of fallen angels coming to the Hellmouth in search of Dawn, who just happens to be a mystical Key.  Anyone care to wager on what it is they plan to open?"

"Personally, I'm still holding out hope they just lost their car keys," Xander divulged.  "But I'm guessing that's probably not the prevailing theory."

"I like Xander's theory," Dawn admitted.  "I'd rather not consider the alternative."

"Unfortunately we must, Dawn," Giles empathized.  "We have to assume the worst case scenario; that these Fallen are either already here or are on their way, and that they have every intention of opening the Hellmouth."

"But why?" Willow asked.  "What's in it for them?  I mean, okay, they're fallen angels and therefore probably not the nicest people on the block, but what's their motivation?"

"How about revenge?" Buffy offered.  "Speaking as one who's had her soul involuntarily torn out of Heaven, I can attest to the fact that it's not a very pleasant experience.  Maybe these guys got booted out and now they're looking for a little payback."

"Destroy our world just 'cause they got kicked out of theirs?"  Willow asked, unconvinced.  "Sounds a little on the extreme side."

Xander caught his best friend's eye.  "People tend to go a little postal when their world's been torn apart, Wills.  I don't imagine that angels, even those of the fallen persuasion, are any different."  He hated to bring that up, even if Willow appeared to have momentarily forgotten her recent transgressions.

"I do know a thing or two about that," Willow noted, mostly for Xander's benefit.  "But it's not exactly the same thing.  If these guys really are fallen angels, then chances are pretty good they did something to earn that distinction.  So if they're out looking for revenge, then why not take it out on the one most directly responsible?"

"Perhaps they are," Giles theorized.  "Assuming these Fallen beings are truly of a divine origin, and accepting that they have been expelled from their natural realm, what better course of revenge could there be than in destroying their master's greatest creation?"

"Okay, I'm calling a timeout here," Dawn insisted.  "This is starting to sound a little too _Book of Revelations_ for my taste."

"You deal with demons and monsters on a daily basis, and discussing the potential existence of the divine bothers you?" an incredulous Wesley asked.

"Demons bother me.  The end of the world concerns me.  All this talk about Angels and Heaven down right freaks me out."

"And yet you wear a crucifix around your neck."

"I said I was freaked out, Watcher boy.  I never said I was stupid."

"Ex-Watcher boy," he corrected her.

"Whatever."

"I think we can all agree that this entire turn of events is, to say the least, disconcerting," Giles imparted.  "Be that as it may, we have no choice in the matter but to plot a course of action." 

"That sounds lack a plan to me," Buffy agreed, jumping up from her chair. "Let me know how it turns out."

"And what will you be doing in the meantime?" Wesley asked.

"I thought I'd go beat up Willie the snitch.  It's been a long time, and he tends to worry."

"You think he knows something that might prove useful?" Knowing Willie as he did, Giles had his own doubts.

"Don't know; don't care.  Either way, I get to hit someone."  With that, Buffy strode to the door, pausing only to pilfer a short-sword from Giles' weapons chest.  She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, flashing a guilty smile at her friends.  "Just in case," she said, saluting them with the blade as she stepped out the door.

Over on the couch, Xander felt the distinct pain of an elbow jabbed into his side.  He glanced over at Dawn quizzically, silently asking what he had done wrong.  In response, Dawn merely jerked her head at the door, in the direction Buffy had just gone.  For once, Xander got the message.

"I, uh, hate to pull a Houdini on you guys, but I've gotta run by the school and survey the damage while I still have a job.  If it's not too late I'll swing by on my way home and we can compare notes."  Xander hauled himself up from the couch, giving Dawn a quick peck on the cheek, then made his way out the door.

He wasn't fooling anybody.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The Courtyard outside Giles' House**

Despite Buffy's head start, it didn't take Xander long to catch up with her.  Descending the stairs into the courtyard, his gaze instantly fell on the Slayer's diminutive form as she lounged expectantly in a wrought-iron chair.

"Took you long enough," she observed casually, pulling out a chair.

Xander obediently took the offered seat.  "Didn't want to be too obvious." 

"I think it's a little late for that, Xand.  All that tension's kind of a dead giveaway, don't ya think?" 

"I don't know, Buff.  Seems to me it's pretty much par for the course, considering our history."

Buffy couldn't have asked for a better opening.   Well, maybe she _could_ have, but beggars can't be choosers, or so the story went.  "Is that what we have, a history?"

Xander wasn't really ready to answer that question, despite having played this scene out in his head time and again.  "I suppose I should have seen that coming."  

Patience was a virtue, but not one the Slayer had in ready supply.  "So?"

"I'm sorry," Xander offered, hoping the vague apology would placate her, which, of course, it didn't.

"You're sorry?" Buffy repeated, a little too coolly for Xander's taste.  "Sorry about what?"

"That depends on how long you've got.  For starters, I'd like to apologize for the other night.  I didn't handle things very well."

"What else is new?"

Xander hung his head slightly, partly in shame, but mostly out of his desire to avoid making eye contact.  "I guess I had that coming.  Regardless, I meant what I said.  You didn't deserve what happened, and I'm not going to make any excuses for the way I behaved."

"So are you sorry that we kissed, or that you walked away afterwards?"

Once again, Xander failed to see the sign in front of him, the flashing red one that read:  _Danger – Minefield:  Stay the Fuck away. _ Oblivious to the potential danger, Xander took the plunge. "A little bit of both, I think."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"  The tone of her voice suggested it hadn't, as did the remnants of the metal armrest clutched in her balled fist.

Xander shook his head.  "I don't think it works that way.  I'm just trying to clear the air between us.  We both need to know where things stand."

"I thought you made that pretty clear the other night."

"It's not like that Buff.  What I meant to say was that I had no right to kiss you, knowing how you felt, when I was unsure of my own feelings toward you."

"It's not that hard, Xander.  You either have feelings for me, or you don't."

"Isn't it?  Tell me, how long have you felt this way about me?  A week?  A month?  A year?  Why haven't you acted on those feelings?"

"That's different," Buffy protested.  "The timing was all fucked up.  You were still sorting things out with Anya, and I was…. well…there was the whole thing with Spike."

"You mean that whole thing where you were screwing Spike.  If you don't mind, I'd rather leave him out of this."

"I don't see how that's an option, Xander.  Like it or not, Spike's a part of this."  Xander didn't like it.

"Spike has nothing to do with the way you feel about me," Xander argued, "and neither does Anya.  You told me yourself that you never loved Spike, and we both know the moment I left Ahn at the altar it was over between us.  There was nothing to hold you back.  You could have told me how you felt, could have acted on your feelings, but you chose not to.  I want to know why."

"Do you think this has been easy for me?  God, what I would give to be able to go back and change things, to tell Spike to go to hell, to tell you that I…" Buffy paused, willing herself to say the words, but still unable to do so.  "…To tell you how I felt about you."

"And now?  How do you feel now?"

Buffy could feel the knot growing in her stomach, and that, more than anything, told her what she needed to know.  She wasn't ready for this; wasn't ready to honestly explore her feelings for Xander.  Up until now it had been a purely theoretical exercise.  No risk, no ramifications, no broken hearts.  If she spoke up, if she told him the truth, then everything would change.  She wasn't sure she was ready for that.  _God_, _I feel like a little schoolgirl_.  _Does he love me?  Does he hate me?  Why can't we just pass a note like we did in junior hig_h:  _Do you like me?  Circle yes or no.  There was a reason it was a classic_.  _Damn growing up.  _

"I feel the same way I felt back then.  I love you, Xander.  You know that."

Xander shook his head.  Buffy wasn't getting off the hook that easy, and neither was he.  "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

That much was true…Buffy did already know that.   "Seems to me we've done this song and dance before."

"And yet here we are, still singing the same old tune."

Buffy averted her eyes, glancing down at the glass table.  "I'm not ready to put myself out there, Xander.  Not yet."

"And you think I am?"

"You already know how I feel, Xander.  I may not be able to say the words, but I can't deny what I feel inside of me.  What I don't know, what I need to know, is how you feel about me."  

That was one way to take care of that.  "I love you Buffy.  I always have, and I always will."  Xander hesitated momentarily, fearing how she would react to the next few words.  "But I'm not in love with you."

Buffy bit down on her lower lip, fighting the urge to lash out at Xander.  She'd known, had suspected, all along that it would turn out this way.  But the part of her that believed in happy endings had stubbornly held out hope, refusing to either acknowledge or accept this possibility.  "Am I supposed to thank you for that?"

Xander reached out across the table, attempting to take her hand in his own.  She quickly pulled it away. 

"Buffy I…I don't want you to misunderstand me.  I love you and I always will.  Nothing can ever change that.  When I say that I'm not in love with you, it doesn't mean that I don't have strong feelings for you.  But you deserve to know the truth.  And the truth of the matter is that I'm not in love with you.  That's not to say that I never could or will be.  I need for you to understand that.  I'm not trying to hurt you or get even with you.  I just want to be honest with you."

Buffy hung her head, not wanting Xander to see the tears forming in her eyes, or the weakness they implied.  "I know," she said, her voice tinged with resignation.  "I mean, I understand."

"Do you?  Do you really?  I want more than anything for you to understand.  I need you to understand.  I loved you, Buffy; from the first moment I laid eyes on you, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you."

Buffy wiped her eyes with her hand, attempting – and failing – to make the gesture appear nonchalant.  "So what changed?"

"I changed.  From day one I worshipped you; I placed you high up on a pedestal where nothing could ever touch you.  In my eyes you were perfect; you could do no wrong.  Because of that, I held my heart out for the world to see, knowing even then that I would never have you.  And it hurt.  It hurt more than I could possibly imagine.  But I stayed the course.  I watched you with Angel, watched you give to him what I could never have.  And through it all, in spite of it all, I loved you.  Every time you screwed up, every time you tore my heart out, I came back for more.  I kept the hope alive."

"But you said…"

Xander nodded.  "I said that I changed.  But that's not really accurate.  What changed was how I looked at you, how I perceived you.  There wasn't some grand epiphany; there wasn't a single moment when a light bulb just popped on in my head.  It was a process, a gradual realization that you weren't infallible; that you weren't perfect.  Somewhere along the line I realized that you weren't some goddess sent down from above.  You were just a person; a person with unique abilities, but a person nonetheless.  You were flawed.  You had the same weaknesses and insecurities as the rest of us.  You made mistakes.  You made bad choices.  And the more I came to know you, the better I got to know myself."

"And then you realized you didn't love me?"

"And then I realized that what I felt for you wasn't the same as before.  I still loved you, Buffy.  That hadn't changed.  But for the first time I admitted the truth to myself.  I accepted our relationship for what it was, and that was enough.  I realized that true love wasn't something that just was.  It was something that you had to work for, something that can't exist in a vacuum.  When I looked back on those first few years, I realized that I wasn't really in love with you, not in the truest sense of the word.  I was in love with an illusion, an image I had built up in my head as the end-all, be-all of my existence.  I was in love with what I wanted you to be, not with the person you really were."

"I must have been a big disappointment."

"You know better than that, Buffy.  You made some bad choices, and so did I.  And it was for the best.  We both made our share of mistakes, and because of that, not in spite of it, we grew closer.  It hasn't been easy for either of us.  There were times when I felt myself falling back on old habits.  When I was with Cordelia, even when I was with Anya, there were those days when all you would have had to was say the word, and I would have been there.  I would have been yours.  Even on my wedding day, a part of my heart still belonged to you.  I couldn't escape it, as much as I wanted to.  On that day, I turned my back on Anya, turned my back on a chance at something resembling normalcy.  But it wasn't all because of you.  That demon showed me things, and even after the truth came out, the images still haunted me.  The possibility that I could hurt Anya, that I could cause her so much pain, scared the hell out of me.  So I walked away from it all."

"But you loved Anya…. right?"

"Yes I did, and in a way I still do."

"But you weren't _in love_ with her?"

"Right."

"You also love me?"

"Uh-huh."

"But you're not in love with me."

"Again, yes."

"Soooo… you feel the same about both of us."

"Of course not."

Now Buffy was lost.  "One of us is very confused, and I'm honestly not sure which one."

Xander did his best to explain, though even he wasn't sure he knew why.  "You and Ahn are two very different people, Buffy.  I love both of you, but in a different way."

"Okay," Buffy temporized, still not quite grasping what Xander was trying to say.  "So you loved Anya – you _love Anya_ – but you don't see any future for the two of you?"

"Not the future that she wanted."

"And it's not the same with us."

Xander shook his head.  "Ahn is still trying to come to grips with her humanity.  She never really accepted that it was a process, that it took time to grow into it.  She wanted the whole nine yards right now – the dog, the white picket fence, the 2.6 kids, everything.  It wouldn't have been fair to either of us to go through with the wedding."

"But you had your own doubts…. about yourself."

"I did," Xander conceded, "and to some degree, I still do.  But that's not up for discussion."

"You're the one that wanted to get things out in the open," Buffy reminded him.

"My personal introspection has its limits, Buffy.  There will be no discussing my neuroses, complexes, pathos, or any other of my many emotional and psychological shortcomings."

"Then what's left to talk about?"

"You…. and possibly your neuroses, pathos, complexes and varied other shortcomings."

"I think I'll pass."

"No fair, Buff.  I showed you mine, now you have to show me yours."

Buffy's eyes grew wide at that last comment.  Obviously she didn't take it as Xander had intended.  

"Judging by your expression, it's possible that didn't exactly come out the way I intended.  What I to say was that I spilled my guts, so now it's your turn."

Buffy would much rather show him hers.  "No way," she demurred, rising to her feet in an unconscious attempt to put some distance between them.  "No way in hell."

"No way?"

"Not gonna happen."

"You're sure?"

"Yep."

"Positive?"

"HIV, no.  Otherwise…yes.

"And why is that?"

"Do the words _beat a dead horse _mean anything to you?"

Xander almost smiled.  "I doubt a dead horse would mind being beaten.  Besides, we're not finished here.  At least, you're not."

Buffy thought otherwise.  "I'm pretty sure I am."

"No Buff.  You're not.  There's still something you're not telling me, something you need to get off your chest.  And we both know it."

Abandoning the table, Buffy retreated a few steps, turning her back to Xander.  She wanted to ignore him, to ignore the issues separating them, but she knew they wouldn't just go away.  "What do you want me to say, Xander?  What could there possibly be left to say?"

"How about the truth?  It can't be that bad.  Just tell me what's going on in that pretty little head of yours."

She slowly turned to look at him.  "And if I don't know?"

He shrugged equivocally. "Then make something up.  I won't know the difference anyway."

The hint of a smile crept onto Buffy's face.  Xander had a habit of making her do that, that is, when he wasn't driving her crazy.  But even then…"You should be careful what you ask for.  Fighting vampires is one thing.  Trying to get into my head's a little more problematic."

"And you should know better than to warn me off.  I think it's become painfully apparent over the past six years that I seldom do what's good for me."

The smile threatening to breakout out on Buffy's face did just that.  "You know, even when you make very little sense, you somehow manage to get your point across."

Xander returned the smile and raised her a wink.  "It's all part of the irresistible Xander Harris charm, at least, that's what Wills tells me.  Though I concede it's remotely possible she just said that to humor me."

"Just possible?"  Buffy new all about the Harris charm, or lack thereof.

Xander shrugged.  "Maybe even likely," he conceded.  "At any rate, you still haven't answered my question.  So ixnay on the allingstay and 'fess up.  What's the what, Buff?"

"You really wanna do this?"

Xander shook his head solemnly.  "Sadly, I have nothing better to do."

"Don't you have a job to get to?"

Another shake of the head, this time from side to side.  "Probably not for long."

One last attempt at circumlocution.  "I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"I'm familiar with most of the story.  Just tell me how it ends."

In the end, that's what it all came down to:  Those three little words – those _other_ three words – that she had fought for so long to ignore, knowing that once she finally spoke them, finally admitted it to herself, there was no turning back.  _Here goes nothing.  _"I'm not human."  There, she said it.  Finally.  It wasn't so hard after all.

Xander was slightly taken aback by that revelation.  "Care to repeat that for those of us who aren't you?"

"I'm not human," she said again, more quietly this time, but with no less conviction.

Xander shook his head emphatically. "That's crazy talk.  Of course you're human.  You just came with a few extra options, that's all.  You're Buffy, new and improved version 2.0"

"I'm not saying this because I'm the Slayer.  I'm not even sure I am the Slayer anymore."

Xander wasn't always slow on the uptake.  "Because you died."  

"Thanks for the reminder."

 "I didn't mean…"

Buffy dismissed it with a wave of her hand.  "I know you didn't."  She turned again and took a few steps away.  "It's just that since I came back things have been different."  

That much was true, though Xander was reticent to press the issue.  He rose from his chair, closing the physical distance them.  "We never really talked about it."  

Buffy turned to face him, almost uncomfortable at the physical proximity between them.  "I know we haven't.  And that's mostly my fault.  I guess I just wasn't ready then."

Xander reached out to her, gently touching her arm without even realizing he had done so.  "We don't have to do this now.   I know that when you're ready you'll tell me."

Xander's choice of words did not go unnoticed by Buffy.  _He said "me", not "us".  What did that mean?  Damn, should've paid more attention in Psych 101. _She shook her head."It's okay.  I need to talk about it.  I've kept it all bottled up for so long that I forgot how good it feels to talk to someone about it."  Xander didn't respond, hoping that she would take his silence as a sign to continue.  She did.

"After I came back, things…were different, and I don't just mean between us.  I-I could feel that something inside of me had changed, and it scared me.  A lot."

 Xander nodded for her to keep going.  "I'm stronger than I was before.  When I fight them – the vampires, demons, whatever – I barely even have to try.  I just know I'm going to win, and it has nothing to do with confidence.  When I go into battle, I don't even have to think, I just act."

"But that's a good thing…right?"

Buffy ignored the question for a moment, lapsing into a short silence.  After a few moments, she spoke again, posing a question Xander wasn't entirely prepared to answer.  "Xander, do you believe in God?"

"Come again?"

Buffy sat down on the steps, gesturing Xander to take a seat beside her.  "We've been fighting evil for what – about seven years now?  Don't you ever wonder about it all?"

"Honestly," replied Xander, sitting down beside her, "I've never really given it that much thought."

Buffy was surprised by his revelation. "Really?"  

Xander shrugged nonchalantly.  "I guess it's because I know all I really need to know.  We kill the things that need killing.  If we don't do it, who will?"

Buffy nodded.  "Believe me, I get that.  I really do.  It's just that… it's just that there are so many unanswered questions, so many things that I don't know."

"You know what they say about curiosity?"  Xander was as superstitious as the next guy, maybe even more so.

Buffy smiled at that one.  "By my count I still have seven lives to go.  Besides, the cat didn't have friends to bring him back from the dead."

"Cats don't need help coming back from the dead around here," Xander pointed out.  "And what can I say?  We do what we can."

"For which I am eternally grateful, if I haven't said so lately."

"You have.  And your appreciation for our total disregard of the laws of nature is both duly noted and accepted."

"You're not planning on answering my question anytime soon are you?"

Xander feigned confusion.  "And which question would that be?  I lost track."

"The Big Guy…"

"You mean Giles?"

"Xander!"

"Oh, you meant the other G-man."  Buffy nodded.  "Since when did you go all theological on me, Slayer?"  He received a jab to the shoulder in response.  A very light, yet nonetheless painful, jab.

"Ouch!  You know Buff, inflicting bodily harm will not make me any more cooperative."

Buffy shrugged it off.  "It makes me feel better."

"In other words, either you're suddenly into S&M, or you're not letting me off the hook."

Buffy leveled a pseudo-serious gaze at him.  "Xander, believe me when I say if I ever decide to chain you up and whip you, you will not enjoy it in the least."  _Well, maybe just a little…_

"So, we're back to square one, huh."

"Looks like."

"And there's no chance I'm getting out of this?"

Buffy resolutely shook her head from side to side.  "Probably not."

Xander scratched his head.  "And this got turned around on me how?"

"Short attention span?"

"Fair enough.  Then the answer to your question is yes, I do."

Buffy nodded in agreement.  "I guess somehow I already knew that.  What I don't know, what I need to know, is why."

"You do realize that I'm probably not the most qualified person in the world to answer that question." 

"Humor me anyway?"

It was hard to resist Buffy.  Less so as of late, but still, no easy task.  "All right," Xander surrendered, " I'll give it the old non-college try.  Just consider yourself warned."  Xander took a moment to select his words before venturing into uncharted territory. 

"I take a lot on faith Buffy – we all do.  It's a part of what we do.  That's just the way it is.  The problem is, that's not always enough.  Sooner or later, we start to question things; we start to wonder why.  Not why we do it – we do what we do because it's the right thing to do – but why things happen the way they do.  We know what's out there.  We know what it is, and most of the time we even know how to kill it.  But we don't know why it's there, or for that matter where it really comes from.  We toss around words like heaven and hell, talk about them like they're empirical fact, but – present company excluded – we don't really have any proof that they even exist."

 "Empirical," Buffy asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Thirty Seven Across.  Yesterday's crossword puzzle."

"I had to ask," Buffy explained apologetically.  "You caught me off guard with that one."

"Stick around.  I might just have a few more surprises up my sleeve."

"Such as?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?"

Buffy nodded.  "Then by all means, surprise me."

"You should be careful what you ask for.  Anyway, before I was so not rudely interrupted, I said that we don't really have any proof, with the obvious exception of your little sabbatical the other summer.  That's not entirely true."

"It's not?"

Xander shook his head.  "No it's not.  Empty your pockets and I'll show you."

Buffy cast a questioning glance at Xander, but did as he asked.  Sliding her hand into her jacket pocket she removed a key ring, a pair of wooden stakes, and a vial of holy water, which she placed on the concrete step.  "So?"  

He gestured towards the previous contents of her pocket.  "What do you see there?"

_Wasn't that obvious? _ "My keys and a couple of weapons.  Why?"

"Most people – most normal people – would only see a few sharpened sticks and a bottle of holy water.  You see something different because you have a different perspective, because you're the Slayer."

Buffy closed her eyes for a moment, then reopened them, gazing at Xander with something akin to admiration.  "They're only weapons because of what they represent."

"You already knew that, but I'm willing to bet that you never really gave it much thought," said Xander, just a hint of surprise in his voice.

"I only knew that they worked; I never really cared why.  I had a Watcher for that."

"True, but even Giles can't answer all of your questions."

_Especially the ones I don't ask.  _"And you can?"

"You know me better than that, Buff.  But if I may, allow me to impart a bit of Xander-wisdom."

"By all means Confucius, enlighten me."

Xander was prepared to do just that.  "I think I know you pretty well Buffy.  Better than most anyway.  Sometimes I even think I know you better than you know yourself."

"Are you trying to help me, or just scare the hell out of me?"

"I'm trying to offer some constructive advice.  The scaring you part is just an added bonus.  But I stand by what I said – I do know you pretty well.  Over the past six years I've learned to read you, to pick up on your moods, your fears, your charming little idiosyncrasies."

"You've learned to do all that?  Color me impressed."

Xander shrugged.  "That's what I get for hanging out with chicks all the time."

"And yet, I see our fashion sense hasn't rubbed off on you," Buffy observed.

"I am secure in my wardrobe, Miss Summers.  Contrary to popular belief, flannel is a legitimate lifestyle choice."

Buffy held up her arms in surrender.  "Sorry.  I stand corrected.  Please continue."

"Right.  Anyway, as I was saying, I understand you.  I don't pretend to pretend to understand everything you've been through, or how it's affected you.  But I do know that if I were in your shoes, I'd have to wonder why it all happened.  Why death was your gift; why you came back; and why all of these things are happening now."

Buffy nodded.  It was true, even if obviously so.  "So tell me, what am I thinking now?"

That was the easy part.  "You're afraid.  You've only recently accepted what happened to you and made the choice to get on with your life.  And then, like clockwork, it starts all over again.  Another prophesy, another big bad to deal with.  But this time it's different.  There's no demon, no hell-god, just some problem child angels and a bunch of lawyers whose parents probably never loved them enough.  So now, in addition to facing the potential end of the world, you're left with a bunch of unanswered questions."

"A few of which stand out more than others," admitted Buffy.

Xander nodded.  "You want to know where your powers come from, and why you came back from the dead?"

"Well, that and the meaning of life; but I'll take what I can get."

"You're on your own with the last question, Buff.  And the first one is probably best left to someone in tweed, but I think maybe I can provide some insight into the second."

"By all means; be my guest."

Xander reclined back on the stairs, propping himself up on his elbows, letting the midday sun warm his face as he remembered darker times.  It was still hard for him to think about it, to reflect on a world without Buffy, especially on a day like today.  When he spoke, it was as much for himself as it was for Buffy. 

"It was about two months after you died that Willow first proposed the idea of bringing you back, though – if I had to guess – I'd venture to say she'd been considering it since day one.  At the time, during those first couple of weeks, I didn't really comprehend how powerful she'd grown; she spent most of her time either with Tara or locked away in the back room of the Magic Box.  I couldn't really blame her, though.   I think it was just easier that way…. for all of us.  We just kind of withdrew into our selves.  When we were alone, things were better; it was easier.  It wasn't until we were all gathered together that the truth would hit home, that we realized that you were really gone.  And in that regard I guess I was as guilty of that as the rest of them.  I threw myself into my job, working twelve-hour days just to keep from thinking about what we'd lost.  When I wasn't working, I spent all my free time with Anya, trying to reassure her, all the while silently mourning your loss."

Buffy leaned back next to him, resting her head in the crook of his arm as she took his hand gently in her own.  "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

Xander looked down at her, suddenly struck by the odd confluence of the Slayer's strength and the enduring vulnerability that was uniquely Buffy.  "I know this sounds strange, but in a way I think it was for the best.  Dealing with your death forced me to face a number of difficult truths.  It made me reexamine my relationship with Anya, and by default, the way I felt about you.  The really fucked-up part is that even though it was without a doubt the worst three months of my life, I learned more about myself in that time than in the previous twenty one years combined."

"So what did you discover?"

"For one, that I still had a lot to learn about dealing with death."  Xander hesitated a moment, only to be reassured by a squeeze of the hand.  "I never told anyone this, but I never cried after you died.  Not in front of anyone, and not when I was alone.  In some screwed-up way, I thought it would be betraying your memory to do so, in some way dishonoring your sacrifice.  In reality, I think it had more to do with the fact that I couldn't imagine my life without you.  Ever since I found out who you were – what you were – I intrinsically knew that I would someday have to face life without you.  But even after all that time, I still couldn't accept the fact that you were gone.  In my eyes, you were impervious.  Nothing could ever touch you, not even death. And so I refused to accept the finality of it, that you weren't coming back."

Buffy hesitated to say it, but the question lingered on the tip of her tongue, demanding to be heard.  "Willow told me…. she said that you were against bringing me back."

"I was," Xander admitted guiltily, searching Buffy's eyes for any hint of perceived betrayal.  "Somehow it just didn't seem right, bringing you back.  As much as I wanted to, a part of me screamed that it was wrong, that there was something sacrilegious about it.  We don't always play by the rules, but there are some universal laws you just don't mess with, and raising a person from the dead is definitely one of those."

"But in the end you went along with it?"

"I still had my reservations, but there were mitigating factors that I hadn't anticipated.  Foremost of which, I allowed myself to forget just how persuasive Willow can be."

"The resolve face is a powerful motivator," Buffy conceded.

"That it is.  But not as powerful as my own resolve to get you back."

"Even though you still had your doubts?"

"I guess what it all came down to was that I'm still an impulsive and irrational person at heart.  I knew it was wrong, that there was a chance that you would come back different, but in the end, I didn't care about any of that.  I just wanted you back."

"And if I had come back…. wrong?"

"I considered that.  To be honest, I almost expected it.  I knew there was an inherent risk in what we were doing.  So did the others, especially Anya.  And I hate to admit it, but I was prepared to deal with it, despite what Spike said."

"You could have done that?"  As disturbing as the thought was, it had occurred to Buffy on more than one occasion.

"If it wasn't you, not really the real you, then yes.  As much as I wanted you back, I couldn't accept any substitution.  If you hadn't come back whole – come back you – then I would have put you back in the ground, one way or another.  I owed you that much."

"And then?  Could you have lived with yourself afterwards?"

The way Xander looked at her told Buffy all she needed to know.  It was as if she were glimpsing her own reflection in a mirror; the same hesitation, the same haunting fears reflected in her own eyes were also found lurking in the depths of Xander's.  In that instant, Buffy knew without a doubt that Xander would have sent her back to her grave had she come back wrong; she was equally certain that he would have followed her there soon after.  And as strange as it sounded, she found comfort in that realization.

"I think you already know the answer to that," Xander said, his voice remarkably even given the subject matter. 

"I think you're right," Buffy agreed.  "But there is one other thing you might answer for me."

"And that is?"

"How is it you managed to completely avoid answering my original question?"

"Is that what I did?" Xander asked, feigning ignorance.  "Guess I just got a little sidetracked."

"Or maybe you just don't want to answer the question."

"Maybe," Xander conceded, "but did you stop to think that maybe it's not me that I'm concerned about."

"Really?"  Buffy knew a half-truth when she heard it.

"C'mon Buff.  Do you really want to listen me regurgitate all that crap about our little resurrection ritual, or are you ready to hear the truth."

Buffy leveled her gaze at Xander, her unblinking stare providing the answer.  "I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't."

"And I wouldn't be telling you if I didn't believe that to be true."

"So we're in agreement then."

But there is one question you might help me out with."

"What's that?"

"What the hell ever compelled you to buy that hideous shirt?"

That was definitely hitting below the belt.  "You something?  I take back everything I said.  I don't love you; I don't even really like you that much," Xander somehow managed to say with a straight face.

The playful grin on Buffy's face gave lie Xander's claim.  "Yes you do.  You love me.  You can't stand to be without me.  You missed me so much you brought me back from the dead."

"I do not.  I only said all that crap to make you feel better.  And for your information, the only reason we brought you back from the dead was because we needed a Slayer on the Hellmouth.  In truth, none of us could ever stand you…. especially me."

"You think I'm beautiful.  You wanna date me," Buffy sang aloud.  Taunting Xander was just so damn much fun.

"As if.  I'm not even mildly attracted to you.  I mean, look at yourself – those knobby knees, that passé heroin-chic look, and do I even have to mention your thick ankles?"

"Your pathetic denials have no effect on me," Buffy countered, with no small degree of smugness.  "I know the truth.  I know you want me."

"You're living in fantasy land," Xander argued weakly, "I'm immune to your inconsiderable charms."

"Is that why you keep playing with my hair?"

"I am _not_ playing with your hair.  I'm merely lulling you into a false sense of security, at which point I'll proceed to pull out your hair, strand by strand, until you're completely bald."

"You know," Buffy purred, more coquettishly than she realized, "if you keep telling yourself that, you might actually start to believe it."  She pouted her lips, enjoying the reaction she elicited from Xander.  "But I doubt it."  Leaning in closer to Xander, she cruelly whispered the next part into Xander's ear.  "Besides Xand, what makes you think I'm not already bald?"

Xander could already feel the blood flow draining from his brain, destined for more southerly regions.  _Don't do it, Xander.  Don't even think about it.  She's just fucking with your head.  There's no way she's…she's.  Oh shit; too late._  _Damn imagination.  _"You have no effect on me whatsoever," Xander protested, trying to convince himself of that, despite obvious physical evidence to the contrary.

"I thought you were going to pull my hair out?" Buffy asked with a knowing grin, glancing innocuously at Xander's "physical evidence".

"I intend to…I mean I am…any minute now…it's gonna happen."

"So what's stopping you?"

Xander knew he was losing this one, and fast.  "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"I know you're not trying to get rid of me."

"I've been doing nothing but for the last five minutes," he lied.

Buffy extricated herself from Xander, strategically brushing up against him, before slowly walking down the stairs.  "Fine.  I can see when I'm not wanted.  I'm leaving."

Xander just shrugged, trying to appear indifferent.  "Good.  So go already."

"I will.  Just don't be thinking about me when I'm gone."

"No problem.  I wasn't thinking about you when you were here."

That one brought another smile to Buffy's face. "Liar," she called over her shoulder as she strolled contentedly to the Jeep.

Now Xander was smiling too.  "Maybe just a little," he admitted, _sotto voce_.

From inside Giles' house, two more people were smiling as well.

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End Chapter 17.

I apologize for the total lack of anything remotely resembling action in this chapter.  I sincerely intended to ramp things up, but got a little carried away with the whole B/X moment.  I promise lots of gratuitous violence and a high body count in chapter 18.

Rabid Squirrel

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	18. Novus Ordo Seclorum

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaime__r:_ Obviously, I don't own Buffy.  If I did, she'd be stripped naked, chained to a wall and…. well, you get where I'm going with this.  

_Summary:_ Alternate version of season 7:  The real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the entire human race. 

_Spoilers__:_ (BTVS) Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.   Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3 – _more or less_.

_Rating:_R, for violence, strong language, and the flagrant abuse of literary license. 

_Feedback:_  Constructive criticism, comments, and suggestions are greatly appreciated.  Flamers will be shot on site.

_Note__:_ Thanks to those of you who continue to provide feedback, even if you don't particularly care for recent chapters.  I [somewhat] sympathize with your point of view regarding B/X, and your arguments have been well enunciated.  Nonetheless, this is, and will remain a B/X fic.  In spite of Buffy's necrophiliac tendencies, I think it possible, if not altogether probable, that Xander still harbors feelings for her, and vice-versa.   In the words of Captain Peroxide himself, "love's not brains…it's blood."  Hopefully, the coming chapters will prove more palatable to your tastes and sensibilities.  And if not, feel free to root for the bad guys.  Villains need luvin too.

Also, sorry it took so long to get this chapter our.  I just finished moving and have been on vacation, so I have not had a lot of time to write.  That, and I am a chronic procrastinator, but who's keeping score?

_Dedication_:   To the state of California (aka the fruit and nut state), for constantly reminding me how lucky I am to live in Ohio.

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_Words of wisdom_:  

_"The pure and simple truth is seldom pure and never simple" - _Unknown__

Chapter 18:  "Novus Ordo Seclorum"

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**Sunnydale High School**

**Monday, 1230 Hrs**

In hindsight, Dawn had been wrong about one thing.

While it wasn't "earthquake proof", the latest incarnation of Sunnydale High School had nonetheless been constructed to meet – and in many cases exceed – existing California building codes, standards considerably more stringent than those of other comparable localities.  From a fiscal standpoint, it made good sense, given both the school's proximity to a localized fault line, and the tendency of a particular group of former students to occasionally blow it up or otherwise inflict considerable structural damage.   Of course, it had been built with these very exigencies in mind, and though susceptible to damage from both phenomena, it had been designed to survive either.  Which – in this case at least – it had.

_Shoddy craftsmanship my ass._

Xander had scanned the readout generated by the ground-penetrating radar unit – the city engineers had been unusually accommodating in that regard – and though he was neither a trained geologist nor seismologist, he understood enough to know that the massive concrete foundation, while undeniably damaged, remained structurally sound.  He was also smart enough to recognize that the news wasn't universally good.  The fissure rendered through the base of the foundation was just too perfect, too symmetric, to be anything other than an intentional construct.  That it also happened to be situated directly above the Hellmouth only served to reinforce that troubling belief.  

Against his better judgment, Xander ducked under the plastic cordon tape, venturing closer to the breech to satisfy his growing curiosity.  For the moment, he was alone in the basement; the city officials having left only minutes earlier, his own crew sent out to lunch.  Unimpeded, Xander edged cautiously to the lip of the hole and glanced down, surprisingly unimpressed by what he saw. 

_Yep…. definitely a hole.  A big fucking hole._

As holes went, it was fairly run-of-the-mill – a deep depression in the ground, roughly five feet in diameter and smelling of musty earth.  What set it apart from others, aside from its unnaturally smooth sides and dubious origin, was the fact that it had no bottom, at least not one that Xander could see.

Retrieving his venerable Loc-Tite from a loop on his tool belt, the twenty-something carpenter – a purist, he eschewed the term 'contractor' - held the tape measure out over the hole and toggled the release switch, slowing feeding the 50 feet of flexible metal tape into the void below.  First five feet, then ten …twenty …thirty…forty, and finally fifty.  The tape finally ran out without touching bottom ground, which Xander interpreted as the bad omen it was.  As a general rule, bottomless pits were not of the good, especially in a place like Sunnydale.  Xander had a hunch that old Murphy was completely in agreement with him on that point.

Retracting the tape, he opted for a more tried and true approach.  Xander briefly scanned the floor around him, searching among the discarded chunks of broken concrete for just the right tool.  Grasping one of the smaller remnants, he chucked it down the dark hole, waiting expectantly for the unmistakable thud that would indicate it had hit bottom. 

He heard something else instead.

"So it's true what they say about the state of public schools."

The words echoed in the enclosed stone chamber, resonating indiscriminately off the unfinished walls in such a manner so as to conceal the direction from which they had originated.  Of course, experience, as well as his old friend Murphy, suggested to Xander that the speaker was more likely than not standing right behind him.   His suspicion was soon enough borne out.

Xander slowly did an about face, then slowly shook his head in disbelief as his eyes fell upon a familiar face.   

_Damn._

In all honesty, Xander wasn't really the least bit surprised.  He knew – or should have known – the man was more than he pretended to be.  The proverbial writing was on the wall, scripted in oversized letters, penned in blood-red ink for the entire world to see.  But as was usually the case, Xander had completely disregarded the obvious conclusion.  Whether it was a conscious act he didn't know.  It didn't matter at any rate; the point was that the truth was right in front of him, and he had once again chosen to ignore it, despite what was at risk.  But then, in Xander's defense, he did have a lot on his mind at the present…just not necessarily the right things.

"And what exactly is that?" Xander responded cautiously, appraising the newcomer through decidedly suspicious eyes.  

"Oh…you know," Danyael posited, a mischievous gleam plainly visible in his eye, "how they're all going to Hell."  He allowed his gaze to drift ostentatiously to the chasm behind Xander, an act not lost on the young man.  "In some cases more literally than others."

Still shaking his head in utter disbelief, Xander confirmed in his mind what in his heart he already knew.  "Antiques collector, huh?"

The other man smiled somewhat self-effacingly.  "I know…it's a little thin."

The admission elicited a knowing laugh from Xander.  "Bordering on anorexic."

The man shrugged sheepishly, his oversized duster just barely scraping the dusty dirt floor.  "I was never good at the covert."

That much was obvious.  "Big surprise." Xander said as he stood, carefully brushing the dust from his pants, never allowing his vision to completely stray from the other man.  _Might as well get it over with.  The big pink elephant in the corner wasn't going away any time soon_.  Xander cocked a questioning eye at the alleged fallen angel, unsure if he really believed all of it, even given what he knew.  "So you're the one," he observed quietly.

It wasn't a question, and the other man knew it.  Danyael nodded solemnly.  "I suppose I am."

One question down; a million to go:  "That doesn't exactly give me a warm fuzzy feeling."  

"If you're looking for warm and fuzzy, I suggest you get yourself a dog.  In case you've forgotten, this isn't about you."

Xander nodded reluctantly.  "Whistler took great pains to remind me of that.  But then, I'm guessing you already knew that, or you wouldn't be here."

"Guilty as charged," Danyael conceded.  "So how much did our irritating little friend tell you?"

Xander shrugged.  "More than I wanted to know…. less than I need to."

"Could you vague that up a little?" Danyael requested facetiously.  "Contrary to what you may have heard, Xander, I cannot read minds."

_Now that's the first good news I've heard all day._  "And here I thought you and Whistler were tight.  Why don't you ask him?"

Danyael arched an eyebrow at the prospect.  "You have met Whistler…right?  Do you enjoy spending time with him?" 

The angel had a point.  "About as much as I enjoy a prostate exam."

Judging by the look on Danyael's face, he was not familiar with the concept of the mental filter.  "Thanks ever so much for the disturbing imagery.  If you don't mind, can we please stick to the subject?"

Xander glanced back momentarily at the breech in the floor, reluctant to rehash the events of three years prior, especially with someone who was for all intents and purposes a complete stranger.  Nevertheless he turned slowly back to Danyael, wishing for the millionth time that it was all just a bad dream.  "It was after we blew up the old school, back in the summer of '99," he recalled.  "We'd all made it through the battle with the mayor, and I'd just set out on my now infamous cross-country road trip.  I'd made it as far as Oxnard when the goddamned engine literally fell out of Uncle Rory's Bel Air."  Xander paused, realizing what he'd just said.  He smiled apologetically at the [former?] angel.  "Sorry.  I didn't mean to…well, you know…the whole 'name in vain' thing…"

"Don't sweat it, Xander.  I'm on the Big Guy's shit list, too."

With a nod, Xander continued.  "Anyway, I was heading back to my room one night after a stint at the "Fabulous Lady's Night Club" when I bumped into this pimp-looking joker on the street.  Out of nowhere he makes some wise-ass comment about me being out of my element, something about Oxnard being a far cry from Sunnydale.  To make a long story short, Whistler invited himself into my shithole motel room and proceeded to tell me a nice little bedtime story about the Slayer dying and Hell being unleashed on Earth."

"The Fabulous Lady's Night Club?"

"Don't ask," Xander implored him.  There were some things you just didn't discuss, especially with strangers.  Or even with friends, for that matter.

"Right then.  So…this bedtime story?  Let me guess…the Devil went down to Sunnydale?"  Danyael was familiar with the tale.  He'd written it, after all.

"Something like that," Xander acknowledged, "only Whistler's no Charlie Daniels, and I can't play the fiddle worth a damn."

Danyael smiled sympathetically.  "I don't a fiddle's going to cut it this time, my friend."

That came as no surprise to Xander.  A shame it was never that simple.  "How about hummus?"

"Hummus?"

Xander dismissed the question with a wave of his hand.  "Never mind; inside joke."  He grinned to himself in spite of the circumstances.  "Anyway, Whistler did tell me a few things about the prophecy.  He told me a little bit about Glory, about Dawn, and how Buffy would sacrifice herself to save the world.  That was the part he really stressed.  He emphasized how important it was that I do nothing to change the course of the future.  He kept driving home the point that Buffy had to die for the second time.  He never told me how or why, just that it was important in the overall scheme of things.  Of course, I didn't want to believe him.  So when he revealed that Buffy would come back from the dead only to die a third time, I politely informed him what I thought of his little prophecy, and threatened to introduce my foot to his ass."

"So what made you change your mind?" Danyael asked, fishing in his pocket for a smoke, which he presently withdrew and lit.

"Can I bum one of those?" Xander asked, disregarding Danyael's question for the moment.

"You smoke?"  That hadn't been in the kid's dossier.  "You know, these things will kill you."

Xander didn't smoke, at least not regularly, but that detail didn't seem overly important right now.  "I can only hope to live long enough to die of cancer."

"At least you're keeping a positive attitude about your impending death."  Danyael extended a hand, offering a Marlboro to the young man, which Xander impatiently snatched from him.

Xander pulled a butane lighter from his pocket, lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and promptly erupted in a spasm of coughing.  Unabashed, he continued with the story.  "Anyway, I said that I didn't want to believe him, but a part of me knew better.  I tried to convince myself that he was lying, that he was one of the bad guys and just wanted to get to me.  But in my heart I knew that it didn't make any sense.  If he was gunning for the Slayer, why give me a heads-up that she was going to die?  He had to know that I would try to stop him.  It just didn't add up.  So I took him at his word when he told me the rest."

"And what was that?"

"Whistler told me about the Fallen; how they would use the Hellmouth to stage an invasion of this world.  He said that in order for Buffy to stop them, that she would have to surrender her humanity, and that to do so, she would have to die again."

Danyael nodded.  "The twice-blessed warrior."

"I see you and I belong to the same book club," Xander observed with more than the requisite sarcasm.  "Of course, Whistler left out a few details."

"I presume that I'm one of those details?" 

Xander nodded.  "You presume correctly.  Our fashion-unconscious friend told me that someone would come for her, to show Buffy her true path.   He just left out the part about you being that someone."

"And that's it?  That's all he told you?"

"More or less.  Emphasis on less."

"Maybe I can fill in the blanks for you."

"That'd be a nice start."

Danyael dropped his cigarette butt to the floor, crushing it underfoot.  "I assume you're wondering why I chose to involve myself in this, given that I am, above all, a _fallen _angel."

"The thought had crossed my mind," Xander admitted.

"Well then, let me ask you this:  What do you know about angels?"

Xander pondered the question.  "Considering you're the first angel I've ever encountered – not very damn much."

"Then allow me to give you the condensed version.  You can forget anything you've ever heard or read.  My kind do not have wings, we don't play harps, and for the most part, we despise elevator music.  The truth of the matter is, we're a lot like you.  We all feel; we have emotions.  We love.  We hate.  We laugh.  We cry.  In that regard we are no different than humans.  Unlike you and your kind, however, we have no soul.  We have no need for such a thing.  We are made in God's image, and we exist only to serve His will."

"Great.  So we've established that you're all shiny happy people on a mission from God.  Where does the 'Fallen' part come into play?"

Danyael continued.  "In the days before the coming of the age of man, everything happened as it should.  Our kind lived in harmony, content to serve God, and to bask in his glory.  We were his sons and daughters, and we alone were granted his favor.  And so it was for a thousand times a thousand years.  But then along came your kind, and everything changed."

Danyael paused to light another cigarette, taking a deep drag before continuing.  "In some ways, it was a lot like being an only child.  For countless eons we were the sole recipients of God's love and affection.  But then along came the new kid, and existence as we knew it was irrevocably altered.  No longer were we His favorite children, nor even his only children.  You must understand that because of our nature, the concept of sharing was alien to us, much as it is to an only child.  Some of our number, seeing what was happening, began to harbor resentment toward God's newest creation.  Hatred burned within their hearts, and they vowed to fight for what they believed to be their birthright.  Now, even the most strident of the insurrectionists knew that they could not directly confront God.  To do so was unthinkable, let alone practical.  For that reason, they directed their anger towards man, seeking to eliminate the competition, as it were.  The insurrectionists first sought to corrupt man, and failing that, to destroy him outright.  To that end, some conspired to purify the bloodline of the race of men.  It was the original manifestation of ethnic cleansing.  Human women were sought out and either raped or seduced, in the hope that the human bloodline would be purified, and that resulting offspring would join the ranks of the opposition.  It was in this manner that the race of demons was born.  The union of man and angel was never meant to be; the progeny were neither angelic nor human, but a warped amalgamation of both.  They possessed the passion and emotion of man, and the physical prowess of angels.  Now, the demon-breed were born out of the gravest of sins, and for that reason, the majority were utterly devoid of goodness and purity.  They did not side with the conspirators, yet they entertained the same hatred for mankind that led to their creation.  Of course, God was angry – some might say pissed – and rightfully so.  He cast out those responsible for the rise of demons, condemning them to an eternity of solitude and shame, and waging war on their progeny with his own heavenly armies.  But the rebellion did not end there.  By this time, the ranks of the dissenters had grown to a remarkable extent.  Those still within his kingdom in turn waged war against the ranks of loyalists, angered by the condemnation of their brethren, and uncertain of their own future.  For a thousand years the battle raged, bringing death and despair to a realm which had never known either affliction.  The choirs of angels were forced to choose sides en-masse, bearing arms against their brothers and sisters in an unholy war.  Eventually, the loyalists gained the upper hand, and drove the rebelling hordes out of Heaven.  But these were not merely exiled as were their predecessors.  They were banished to Hell, to suffer an eternity of torment for their sins of arrogance and pride.  Of course that was not the end of it.  The repercussions of the Great War were to be felt for all time.  The battle still rages to this day, though for now it is confined to the plains of the mortal world."

"And what does that have to do with the present situation?  More specifically, what does this have to do with you?"

"I'm getting to that.  I told you that the ranks of angels were compelled to choose sides.  What I failed to mention was that not all of us did so.  A few of our number, myself included, refused to take sides.  We simply stepped aside and watched as the ethereal plains were stained with the blood of our brothers.  When the fighting had ended, God had little mercy for those who chose to abstain from service in his armies.  Like the original insurrectionists, we too were exiled to this world."

"But you had to know there would be repercussions.  Why didn't you just join the right side?"

"I have done just that, in case you hadn't taken notice.  However, back then, the prospect wasn't quite so simple for me."  Stopping in mid-thought, Danyael took a step toward Xander, flicking the remainder of his cigarette into the abyss behind him, an inscrutable expression on his face as he surveyed the darkness below.  He turned slowly back to Xander, continuing with the story.  "Sometimes what turns out in hindsight to be black and white appears at the time as different shades of gray."  Seeing the confused look on Xander's face, he tried a different tack.  "Do you recall when your friend Jesse was turned?"

Xander nodded soberly.  "I still have nightmares.  Vivid nightmares."

"You ended up killing him, though.  You did what had to be done?"

Xander hung his head slightly, realizing what Danyael was hinting at.  "Sort of.  I staked him, thought it was more or less an accident."

"But you would have done it regardless, even though he was your friend?"

"I like to think so.  But we'll never know, will we?"

"No, we won't," Danyael agreed.  "Fortunately for you, you didn't have to make that call.  I, however, had no such luxury."  Danyael paused a moment, allowing the lesson to sink in.  "I too was faced with a similar situation, Xander.  Like humans, we angels form close bonds among ourselves.  The various choirs of angels are a lot like what you would call fraternities, only without the keg parties and dangerous hazing rituals.  One of my brothers was a warrior, one of a race known as archangels.  He was a soldier of sorts, an executioner divine will whose calling was to strike down the wicked and the unjust.  In that capacity he served well, and earned a place among the highest circles of angelic counsels.  But if my brother had one fatal flaw, it was pride.  He saw how God favored the humans, and, given their behavior, he could not reconcile God's solicitude towards them.  The more he came into contact with the human race, the more he failed to make the distinction between the good and the evil among them.  After a time, he saw them all as evil, and all but declared outright war on the human race as a whole.  He made it his overriding mission to discredit man in the eyes of God, to persuade him that his experiment had failed utterly."

"I'm guessing that didn't go over too well with the boss," Xander interjected, exhibiting his legendary flair for understatement.

"You guess correctly.  My brother erred badly in judgment, on more than one level.  But you see, he was not punished for his initial transgressions, as were so many of the others.  He was given a second chance, a chance to see the error of his ways and make amends."

"This story doesn't have a happy ending, does it?"

Danyael ignored Xander's commentary.  "In addition to being proud, Xander, my brother was also rather stubborn.  He was not deterred in the least by his initial failure.  Instead of learning from his mistakes, he compounded them.  When he realized that God would not abide the destruction of his grandest creation, my brother upped the ante, so to speak.  In concert with a number of his counterparts, he incited open rebellion among the ranks of angels.  But they were greatly outnumbered by the loyalists, and were in dire need of reinforcements.  Of course, it was not long before my brother came knocking on my door."  

"So you joined him?"

"No.  I did not.  As much as I loved and respected by brother, I feared the judgment of God even more.  Of course, the reverse was also true.  As much as I loved God and feared his wrath, I could not bear arms against him."

"You pulled a Switzerland," Xander astutely observed.

"In essence…yes.  I remained neutral.  At the time, it seemed the best alternative.  I didn't have the benefit of hindsight."

"But now you do."

"Yes, now I do."

"So no more shades of gray.  Just black and white?"

"Correct."

"And when the proverbial fit hits the shan, you're not gonna go all French on me and wave the white flag?"

"I believe I've already established that, Xander."

"Sorry, had to be sure.  I've got trust issues."

"I've noticed."

"I just want you to know that I'm taking a lot on faith here."

If that wasn't irony, Danyael didn't know what was.  "Join the club."

"Right…okay.  Then there's just one more thing I need to know."

"And what is that?" Danyael asked patiently.

"Buffy."

"That's not a question," Danyael pointed out.

"Tell me about her."

"What is it you want to know?"

"The truth.  I want to know everything."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**200 miles above Sunnydale**

At that same moment, high above Sunnydale, someone else was listening as the Hellmouth began stirring from its forced slumber.  Or, more accurately, _something_ else was listening.

The heavily modified KH-12 satellite had been lifted into a geo-stationary low-earth orbit only six months earlier.  Like its aging cousins, it bore an impressive array of instrumentation, ostensibly to serve as an early warning platform for ballistic missile launch.  Its true purpose was somewhat more immediate in nature, if not less believably so.  

At precisely 1235 Pacific Time, about the time one Alexander Harris was staring down a bottomless pit, an array of on-board sensors detected an anomalous electromagnetic pulse emanating from the vicinity of downtown Sunnydale.  The digitized information was immediately relayed to an orbiting MilStar satellite, where it was in turn beamed to the Air Force downlink station in Sunnyvale.

It was only a matter of time now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Willy's Place 

**That same time**

There was just something about the sense of smell; the way it triggered long forgotten memories; its uncanny ability to instantly bring back certain sights and sounds, long since relegated to the confines of the subconscious.  Walking into Willy's, Buffy experienced the full range of olfactory inspired memory recall.  It was not, as one might suspect, a positive experience.

Not that the memories were all bad.  There was an enduring sense of satisfaction that came part and parcel with smacking around the notorious proprietor of the demonic hangout, though the circumstances necessitating said beatings more often than not left a sour taste in Buffy's mouth.  Today looked to be no different in that regard.

As she had done a hundred other times, Buffy strode purposefully up to the bar, continually amazed by the near perfect condition of the woodwork, which stood in abject contrast to the dismal state of the rest of the establishment.  As many times as she'd bashed some demon's skull against the ornate scrollwork, or broken something's back on the polished surface, it still looked to be in pristine condition.  It never ceased to amaze her how the little things stood out, even when there were more important issues to concern herself with.  Even Xander would be impressed.  Well…he probably would.  One could never be too sure where Xander was concerned.

But she wasn't here to admire the craftsmanship, or even to ponder Xander's preferences.  She didn't have time to be preoccupied.  She was here to kick Willy's ass, or at least threaten to in lieu of any useful information.  At any rate, it was time to get to work.

Buffy never even bothered with the requisite hello.  She simply reached across the bar with one arm, physically hauling the startled bartender off his feet and onto the polished wood, until his face was mere inches from her own.

She never saw the gun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Pacific Coast Highway**

En-Route to Sunnydale 

The charcoal gray Chevy Suburban tore down the winding stretch of California highway, flouting the posted speed limit as it wove its way through the intermittent traffic.  Speeding citations were of little concern to the vehicle's occupants, as the Government Issue license plates ensured they would not be bothered by law enforcement of any kind.

Inside the SUV, concealed from view behind darkly tinted windows, Faith McKenzie reclined in the back seat, flanked on either side by armed men in cheap dark suits.  The Slayer glanced briefly at each, in turn amused and perturbed by the matching expression on each of their faces.  She had a lot of questions running through her head, not the least of which why a convicted sociopath such as herself had apparently just been pardoned by none other than the President of the United States.   Judging by the look of things, she wouldn't be getting an answer to that question, nor any of the others, any time soon.  Still, it wasn't like she had anything better to do.

"Uh…guys?  Not that I don't appreciate the get out of jail free card, but would any of you mind telling me what the hell this all about?"

The men sitting on either side of her said nothing, which came as no great shock to the Slayer. The driver, however, glanced briefly to his colleague in the front passenger seat, receiving a shake of the head in reply.  Nodding his acknowledgement, the driver looked up into the rear-view mirror, eyeing the convicted killer coolly from behind mirrored sunglasses. 

"That's on a need-to-know basis."

Faith had suspected as much; that didn't stop her from pressing the issue.  "Let me guess…I don't need to know."

This time the man didn't bother looking up.  "What do you think?"

The Slayer restrained herself from sharing with them what she actually thought.  "I think this whole fucking thing smells like a set-up."

The man sitting to her left spoke up for the first time; belying Faith's suspicion the man was a deaf-mute.  "If this was a set up, kid, you never would have left your cell alive.  Assuming you get with the program, you'll find out everything in due time.  In the meantime, sit back, shut the fuck up, and enjoy the ride."  

The Slayer was not so easily convinced.  "I'm not really the get-with-the-program type," she stated matter-of-factly.  "But then, you already knew that, what with me being a convicted felon and all.  See, the thing is, you guys already seem to know the score.  You obviously know who I am.  But I know jack squat about you.  What guarantee do I have that you guys are who you say you are?  For all I know, you could be working for those cocksuckers at Wolfram & Hart."

The very thought elicited a knowing laugh from the front-seat passenger.  He pivoted in his seat to face the girl.  "Faith…do you mind if I call you Faith?  Or perhaps you would prefer something a little more familiar, like maybe prisoner #121675?"   

The expression on the Slayer's face set the record straight.  "_Perhaps_ you would prefer I take that badge, turn it sideways, and shove it up your civil servant ass?"

That option evidently didn't appeal to the man.  "I would prefer you didn't, Miss McKenzie.  I'd really hate to have to decorate the upholstery with your brain matter.  It's a real bitch to get that crap out of the carpet, if you get my drift.  Not to mention what all that blood would do to the leather."  He paused a moment to let his words sink in.  "But I do admire your directness, so I'm gonna be straight with you."  He looked Faith in the eye, furtively allowing his peripheral vision to drift to the man next to her.  "I give you my word none of us are now, nor have ever been, in the employ of Wolfram & Hart.  Except for Mr. McMichaels, of course."

That comment did not sit well with two of the back-seat passengers.  One of them, Faith, spun clockwise, the alarm evident on her face as she turned to the right to face the unexpected threat.  The other, soon-to-be ex Deputy Marshal McMichaels, wasn't taking the news very well either.  The shock on his face was evident, even as his right hand darted instinctively into his coat.  _How could they know?  _He'd been so careful; he'd done everything right – no paper trail, no evidence, nothing.  But even as his mind argued the impossibility of it all, he knew he was too late.  As his gun cleared the concealed shoulder holster, the agent in the front seat leveled his own custom 10mm Smith & Wesson at McMichaels' chest and squeezed the trigger three times, perforating the target's left lung with the first shot, and obliterating both ventricles of the heart with subsequent rounds.  Mortally wounded, McMichaels quickly died where he sat, his gaping mouth deprived of the chance to protest his utter failure, or even to rail against the inequity of his demise.  Faith took care of that for him.

Despite her status as a "hardened criminal", the Slayer had never seen anyone shot dead at point-blank range.  "Jesus H. Christ!" she screamed at the gunman, unable to believe what had just happened before her eyes.  "You – you fucking killed him!"

"Would you rather I let him kill you?" the man countered reasonably, giving the still twitching corpse a cursory glare.  "Really Faith, I would expect someone with your pedigree to show a little more composure.  You are, after all, a convicted murderer."

"Reformed convicted murdered," Faith corrected him, a healthy tinge of irritability evident in her voice.  "And if you knew the sonofabitch was a traitor, why the hell didn't you do something about it?"

"I believe I just did," the Marshal calmly pointed out.  The corpse slouching against Faith's shoulder bore witness to that claim.  Disdainfully shrugging off the dead body, Faith pursued the argument. 

"You know damn well what I meant, G-Man.  You could have taken care of him another way; you didn't have to involve me in this shit."

"I had my reasons."

"And what exactly were they?"

"There were doubts about Mr. McMichaels' loyalties," the man admitted grudgingly.  "We've suspected for some time that he had his own agenda, but we couldn't prove anything.  We needed to be sure."

"So you used me as bait?" Faith asked incredulously.  "Your were willing to risk my life to prove your hunch?  What the hell ever happened to _protect and serve_?"

Front seat guy shrugged.  "I considered it an acceptable risk," he admitted blithely, casting an indifferent glance back at the Slayer. "And don't look at me like that, kid…I'm no cop. I'm not here to hold your hand and tell you everything's gonna be all right.  I hunt down fugitives – human or otherwise. I'm not about to apologize for it."  

"So where do I fit into that equation?  Assuming this pardon is legit, I'm not a fugitive, at least in the strictest sense of the word."  She conspicuously hazarded a glance at the former Marshal slouching on the seat next to her.  "How come I drew the short straw?"

 "Let's just say that there's a sudden demand for your more "unique" capabilities."

"Unique capabilities?  Vague much?"

"I was going for subtle.  But since you haven't seemed to master that art, I'll spell it out for you.  The pardon's legit, but it is conditional.  In exchange for your freedom, you're going to come to work for Uncle Sam."

Faith hadn't been expecting that.  She'd considered the possibility – why else would the government have sprung her – but had dismissed it as beyond the scope of reason.  "Doing what exactly?"

"It's not that hard to figure out.  You're a Slayer, Faith.  You do the math."

"You know what I am?"  Despite the uncertainty in her voice, it wasn't really intended as a question.

Front seat guy nodded.  "I know a lot about you Faith, more than I really care to.  But to answer your question – yes, I know you're a Slayer, and I know what that means."

"So what is it you want me to do?"

The man shook his head at the sheer absurdity of what he was about to say.  "I want you to do your job," he acknowledged with a pained expression.  "I expect you to save the world."

Though he didn't realize it, Faith had has many doubts about that as he did.  Unlike him, she didn't hesitate to admit it.  "I think you've got the wrong girl for the job, mister.  There's another Slayer out there.  Why don't you ask her?"

"Understand this, Faith:  I'm not asking you to do anything – I'm telling you how it's going to be.  Either you do this for your country, or you go back to being prisoner #121675."

Ever the cynic, Faith wasn't buying the party line.  "You know, I may not have finished high school, but I wasn't born yesterday.  I'm pretty sure a pardon means all is forgiven, no strings attached."

The man leveled his gaze at her, his expression devoid of humor.  "I don't think you fully appreciate your situation Faith.  The President's orders were very clear in their intent:  Prisoner #121675 is to cease to exist.  If you choose not to play ball, then you go back to being Prisoner #121675.  Do you understand what I'm telling you?"   

Suddenly, things were very clear to Faith.  As it was, she wasn't about to sacrifice herself on the altar of principle, at least not where her life was concerned.  "Well, when you put it that way…. where do I sign up?"

"I'm glad to see you've come around to my way of thinking, Faith.  If it makes you feel any better, you've made the right decision."

In the most favorable light, the look Faith shot him could only optimally be described as unkind.  "Not like I really had a choice in the matter."

"Oh, but you're wrong, Faith.  You always have a choice.  It's just not always a pleasant one."

Faith rolled her eyes at that not-quite revelation.  "The story of my life."

"Well, then think of this as a chance to make a new start."  The fact that the man's gun was now aimed her did not escape Faith's notice.  Still, his was the only game in town, at least for the time being.

"Answer one question for me?" 

"Shoot," he responded, the pun not entirely unintentional.

Now Faith couldn't help but smile.  "Is there any chance we could we hit the next rest stop?  I have to use the little girls' room."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End chapter 18.  Sorry this took so long folks, but I've been a busy squirrel.  I promise (and this time I mean it) the next chapter will not take so long.  At any rate, look for all Hell to break loose (pun intended) in the next installment.

Until next time,

Rabid Squirrel


	19. Guns Don't Kill People, Bullets Kill Peo...

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Disclaime__r:_ I own nothing, save a shattered croquet mallet, a pair of frozen underwear, and a few remaining shreds of dignity.  

_Summary:_ Alternate version of season 7:  The real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the entire human race. 

_Spoilers__:_ (BTVS) Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.   Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3.

_Rating:_R, for violence, strong language, and the flagrant abuse of literary license. 

_Feedback:_  Constructive criticism, comments, and suggestions are greatly appreciated.  Flames will be used to burn couches.  Couches?  Yes…I said couches.  Don't ask.  You wouldn't understand anyway.

_Note__:_  Thanks again to all who continue to provide feedback, and to those of you who have just joined us for this little extended head-trip into the BTVS alternate-reality universe.  As for those who haven't yet reviewed…. where's the love?

_Dedication_:  To Frank, and all other demonic rabbits the world over.  Let's hope we have more than 28 days left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 19:  "Guns Don't Kill People, Bullets Kill People." _And from these afterward another race  
Proceeded, late-completed, youngest born,  
Blood-stained, perverse in counsel; of men these  
Were in the fourth race; much the blood they spilled,  
Nor feared they God nor had regard for men,  
For maddening wrath and sore impiety  
Were sent upon them. And wars, homicides,  
And battles sent some into Erebus,  
Since they were overweening impious men.  
But the rest did the heavenly God himself  
In anger afterwards change from his world,  
Casting them into mighty Tartarus  
Down under the foundation of the earth._ - Excerpt from the Apocrypha, Book I of the Sibylline Oracles ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A Block From Willy's Place 

They watched from a discrete distance, two otherwise unremarkable men sitting inside what at first glance appeared to be a customized Ford F350 pickup truck.  But as was to be expected in Sunnydale, neither the men nor the vehicle were what they initially appeared to be.  

The truck was not really a pickup at all, but a practical technology demonstrator, an integrated weapons and communication system mated to the venerable Ford chassis.  Officially it was only a concept vehicle, a project designed to evaluate the efficacy of pairing cutting edge commercial automotive applications with an urban light tactical vehicle platform in a low-intensity urban warfare environment.  It was, in short, the SUV from hell.

While the exterior body of the vehicle might have been crafted in any of Southern California's numerous custom body shops, its numerous internal components were something straight out of a James Bond flick.  The seemingly off-the-shelf headlights were capable of delivering stunning 2-million candlepower bursts of light, incapacitating, and in some cases blinding, any potential enemy.  The metal door handles were similarly outfitted, wired to deliver a potent fifty thousand volts of theft deterrent to any would-be thief.  Its exhaust system, while almost stock, functioned as a smoke generator, enabling the driver and occupants to cover their retreat if things really went wrong.

To ensure against such an exigency, the vehicle known officially as the smarTruck also carried with it a number of _more_ active defense systems.  Foremost of these was a pair of embedded 20mm chain guns, each concealed in its own weapons bay on the port and starboard sides of the truck, just aft of the engine compartment.  And for those situations in which a lethal rain of lead just wouldn't suffice, the truck could be readily outfitted with Stinger, Hellfire, or TOW missiles, depending on the nature of the anticipated opposition, and the inclination of the armorer.

The most lethal weapons carried onboard the smarTruck, however, were to be found sitting patiently in the front bucket seats.  The two occupants of the vehicle, casually attired in what passed for civilian garb in military circles, were both well-trained instruments of warfare.  At present, however, neither was in the employ of any military branch per se, though both had at one time seen extensive service in such.  As it was, neither man even knew whom he was ostensibly working for, though both knew one thing for certain:  They were on the right side.

The younger of the two, a visibly fit black man in his mid-to-late twenties, discretely reconnoitered the surrounding area from the passenger seat, expertly surveying the surrounding commercial district with marginally better than 'perfect' vision.  Presently, a flash of movement midway down the street caught his attention, prompting the man to remove his Ray Ban sunglasses.  His left hand automatically moved down to the console between the two men, picking up a pair of cheap commercial binoculars, which he offered reflexively to the man beside him in the driver's seat.

"Female, blonde, early twenties.  Fifty meters at your 2 o'clock.  Looks like our girl."

The elder man raised the glasses to his eyes, adjusting his field of view slightly to the right.  There she was all right.  Caucasian female, age 22, blonde hair, green eyes, and if he wasn't mistaken, toting a short blade inside her jacket.  The hilt was a dead giveaway.  "Roger, positive ID on Alpha," he muttered coarsely, simultaneously reaching for the C-Cell unit mounted on the console.

"Six, Sunburn.  Stand by for confirmation," he spoke into the secure hand-held communications device.

The response came immediately:  "Sunburn, Six; go ahead." 

"Primary is a go.  Repeat, primary is a go.  Alpha has arrived; Oswald is on station."

"Roger that, Sunburn.  Confirm primary is a go.  Be advised – Wildcard en-route with escort.  ETA twenty minutes.  Six out."

With a muffled curse, the driver terminated the transmission, turning to his partner.  "So what do you think?"

"I think she's kinda hot," the other man replied glibly, attempting, and succeeding, to get a rise out of his counterpart.  "Don't you?"

"I hadn't noticed," the older man informed his oversexed counterpart, nevertheless checking out the subject in question from the corner of his eye.  "I'm a happily married man."  

The younger man grunted, following his colleague's wandering gaze.  "Happily married?  Isn't that what they call a contradiction in terms?"

"This coming from a guy who considers a one night stand a long-term relationship?"

"Damn straight," the younger man declared.  "You know my motto:  'Get some and get gone'.  Gotta keep it simple."

"For someone who likes to keep things simple, you sure as hell chose the wrong line of work," observed the other man.  "Talk about your contradiction in terms."

"Careful pops," the younger agent cautioned, wagging his finger disapprovingly.  "You're projecting again.  Me thinks you might need another session with the shrink."

His partner's response came out as a growl.  "She isn't a goddamned shrink.  She's a psychologist.  There's a difference.  And you know damn well it's a standard part of the AAR and debrief, so cut the shit and keep your eyes on the target."

"Yes sir, massuh," the younger man responded tongue-in-cheek, offering the older man a mock salute, replete with extended middle finger.  "I know just what to keep my eyes on."

His colleague rolled his eyes in disbelief.  "You do realize she's gonna be morgue meat in a few minutes.  Your disturbing fixation almost borders on necrophilia."

The younger man just rolled his eyes.  "Which begs the question, and don't think I don't know you feel the same way:  Just what the fuck are we doing sitting here on our asses?  Hell man, I've got my Barrett stowed in the back.  One squeeze of the trigger, and bam:  One dead asshole, and one very appreciative white girl."

"I'm sure you'd fall in lust and live happily ever after," the driver conceded, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he raised the binoculars to his eyes once more, "Unfortunately for you and your simple life, we have a job to do.  And it's a little late to be getting cold feet, so get your shit together and stick to the mission parameters."  Then man fell silent for a few seconds before speaking again, his voice a little softer.  "All right, she's inside.  Shouldn't be more than a few minutes now."  He glanced over to his colleague, observing the crestfallen look on the younger man's face.  "Aw, c'mon.  Buck up kiddo.  With any luck, you'll at least get to kill the bastard later."  That revelation brought a measure of relief to the younger man's face, though it was fleeting. 

"That is," the older man qualified, "if he doesn't do himself afterward."  That had been known to happen, after all.

"It ain't right, man," the passenger lamented, a murderous look reflected in his eyes.  "It just ain't right, doin' that to your own daughter."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inside Willy's Place 

It was a little appreciated fact that there was world of difference between the concept of destiny and that of fate.  The latter, despite frequent invocations to the contrary, was little more than a human contrivance, a way to assign some sort of meaning to the undesirable outcomes of conscious actions.  Destiny, on the other hand, was an entirely real phenomenon, if somewhat more ambiguous in nature.

All of which was of little consolation to Hank Summers.

He'd told himself that it wasn't really his fault; that it was his daughter's deviant tendencies that had brought about the present situation, and not his own moral shortcomings.  And that had initially helped, at least to some degree, convincing him that he wasn't really to blame for this.  Buffy was the one who had broken the rules, he reasoned; she was the one who had made the enemies, not the other way around.  That's the way it had always been.  She'd destroyed his marriage to Joyce all those years ago, with her outlandish behavior and selfishness, all the time driving a wedge between him and her mother.  It hadn't been the affairs or the neglect on his part; it was she.  Buffy was simply a bad kid, and that's all there was to it.

Except, of course, there _was_ more to it than that.   To assuage his guilt, Hank Summers allowed himself the luxury of dismissing the inconvenient matter of his monetary obligations to a certain law firm, a circumstance arising out of his questionable financial dealings and increasingly lavish lifestyle.  He'd rationalized time and again that he only wanted what was rightfully his, a lifestyle denied to him by familial obligations and a floundering California economy.  And to that end, Wolfram & Hart had been a godsend, or so he'd thought at the time.

Sitting in the corner booth at the dingy bar, it began to occur to him that maybe, just maybe it wasn't fate that had brought him there.  Had he been a little more inclined to personal introspection, he might have ultimately come to the logical conclusion:  That it wasn't fate at all, but a dubious destiny that had brought him to this point in life.  But Hank Summers lacked the requisite self-awareness to come to such an enlightened realization, emotionally unable to accept the truth that it was _his_ choices, and not those of his estranged daughter, that had triggered this chain of events, culminating with his arrival in Sunnydale.

Which ultimately was why he was sitting at that exact moment in some god-forsaken dive, clutching an unregistered 9mm pistol in his violently trembling hands, trying in vain to steel himself to do what must be done.  It was why his eldest daughter was going to do die by his own hand this very afternoon, and that had nothing at all to do with fate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Giles' House**

"You haven't told them everything…have you?" 

The elder Watcher glanced up irritably from the growing mountain of research, affixing his approaching counterpart with a disdainful glare.  "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?"

Wesley smiled benignly at his colleague, knowing full well he wasn't the only one who'd been less than candid.   "…'And before the plains of Elysium the champion will fall," he recited from memory, "betrayed by those she would call friend, struck down by agents of the First True Evil."  The smile slowly faded into something else.  "Stop me if this all sounds familiar."

"You've been holding out on me," Giles observed warily, closing the volume of biblical prophecy sitting in front of him.

Wesley casually leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms in front of him.  "It seems I'm in good company in that regard."

Giles disregarded the implicit accusation, curious as to how the other man had come by that particular bit of information.  "How did you know?"

"As I told you before, I have my sources," the younger man assured him.

"Right…your sources," Giles echoed, the corners of his mouth turning upwards ever so slightly in a knowing half-smile.   "Who is she?"

"She?  What makes you think my source is of the female persuasion, or even a human for that matter?"

"I wasn't aware that humanity was a prerequisite of yours," Giles remarked off-handedly.  "You must have raised your standards since we've last spoken."

"I'm laughing on the inside," Wesley assured the other man, smiling benignly, "in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't," Giles countered.  "At least not about that.  As for this alleged source of yours…"

"The source is reliable," Wesley granted.  "Her motivation for disclosing the information is another matter entirely."

"Then your informant is human?" 

Wes nodded.  "A lawyer."

"I stand corrected."

Wes ignored the other man's attempt at humor.  "She's a junior executive at Wolfram & Hart."

"I presume you're referring to Angel's old friend Lilah Morgan."

"You've been speaking to Angel then?"  Wesley hadn't been aware of that little detail.

"On occasion," Giles admitted, rising purposefully from his seat.  He ambled over to a nearby cabinet, removing a half-full decanter of scotch whiskey and two glasses.  He poured a generous amount of the former into the latter, offering a glass to Wesley, who readily accepted.  "More as a professional courtesy than anything else."

"But he saw fit to mention my…'arrangement' with Lilah?"

"Among other things.  I don't believe Angel looks very fondly on your habit of….'pumping' Ms. Morgan for information."

"I make no apologies for my actions," Wesley imparted to his would-be mentor.  "I did what had to be done, given the circumstances."

"I'd say you've gone above and beyond the call in that regard," Giles added for the other man's benefit, draining his glass with one long pull.  "But be that as it may, it still leaves the question as to why Lilah would see fit to share this information with you."

"I assure you, Rupert, I'm not so naïve to assume that her motivation was altruistic," Wes admitted.  "Conversely, however,  I have my doubts as to whether her intention was to, shall we say… incline us to a particular course of action."

Giles could read between the lines better than most.  "You believe that it's inevitable then…that Buffy can't be saved?"

"I don't believe it's a matter of whether she _can_ be saved as much as it is _should_ she be saved."

"That's a rather callous interpretation," Giles observed evenly, his expression conveying his personal disdain for Wesley's explanation.

"Callous…but practical," Wes maintained.  "We've both read the same prophecy, Rupert.  You know the words as well as I."  

Giles couldn't argue with him on that point.  He'd read and reread the proceeding passage so many times that it was forever ingrained in his memory:

_But at the hour when all seems lost, from the ashes of the fallen warrior shall spring forth new hope; out of the funereal pyre a new champion shall be born unto this world, one conceived of man, graced with divine favor, and resurrected as flesh.  She will be called Elisheba, the protector of man, and with her, the line of the chosen shall pass into the new age._

He shouldn't allow himself to believe it; he couldn't allow himself to accept it.  But if it were true…

"I don't much like it either, Rupert," Wesley supplied, sensing Giles' ambivalence, "but we have to consider this rationally.  Should we fail in an attempt to forestall the prophecy, then we run the risk that we will be unprepared for whatever is coming our way."

"And if we don't," Giles argued, "then we will quite possibly lose her forever."

"I've considered that possibility," Wesley conceded.  "But ultimately what it comes down to is a choice between the lesser of two evils.  In which case we have no choice."

"And Buffy, what of her choice?"

"I think it's already been decided for her," Wesley suggested.  "You know her as well as anyone, Rupert.  Do you honestly believe that, given the choice, she wouldn't come to the same conclusion?"

"I _know_ she would," Giles insisted.  "But we would be remiss not give her the choice.  It is her life, after all."

"I won't argue that point with you," Wes conceded, seeing the futility in pursing the argument further.  "Ultimately it is Buffy's decision.  However, assuming she makes the right choice, there are still a few major issues we must deal with."

"Not the least of which is the identity of her betrayer," Giles offered.

"I assume you have a few thoughts on the matter."

Giles nodded.  "More than I care to admit."

"A hell of a thing to suspect your own of treason," Wesley commiserated.  He did, after all, have some experience in that arena.

"More so when there's evidence to confirm your suspicions."

Wesley had expected as much.  "Who?" he asked quietly.

Giles peered warily around the corner, looking through the front window to confirm that Willow and Dawn were still sitting in the courtyard outside.  Despite the fact that he and Wesley were alone, he still found it hard to vocalize his suspicions.  

"Xander.  I believe Xander may be the one."

"The boy?  And you're quite sure of this?"

"As sure as I can be of anything at this point," Giles confirmed, pouring himself another drink.  "Willow overheard a meeting between Xander and a demon named Whistler.  I don't suppose I need to tell you the topic of discussion?"

He didn't.  "Exactly what did she hear?"

"Very little of practical use, I'm afraid.  From the brief snippets Willow overheard, it appears the two were discussing Buffy's impending fate, and Xander's role in preparing her for it."

"So you don't know for certain that Xander is the one?"

"No, I do not.  For that matter, I don't even know what form of betrayal the prophecy alludes to.  I cannot fathom that Xander would do anything to bring harm to Buffy, despite the recent difficulties between them."

"Let's look at this objectively, Rupert.  For starters, we know that Xander has met on at least one occasion with this Whistler, who – if I'm not mistaken – is a balance demon."

"You're not mistaken."

Wesley nodded.  "Secondly, we have prophecy – albeit one we have every reason to believe is genuine – that portends Buffy's imminent betrayal and death."

"But not necessarily in concert," Giles added, a thought taking shape in his head.

"Pardon?"

Giles began slowly pacing the room, running his hand through his disheveled hair as the theory ran its course.  "The prophecy contends that Buffy will be betrayed by one she calls friend, but that she will be struck down by an agent of the First."

"So?"

"So…the wording leaves open the possibility that these are separate acts.  That the one who betrays her will not be the same one who takes her life.  Unless, of course, the betrayer is in league with the First"

Wesley wasn't biting.  "Assuming your initial theory is correct, her betrayer would still be aiding and abetting in her death."

"Maybe," Giles conceded.  "But it's also possible that the alleged betrayal is only a perceived act of betrayal.  What if Xander knows something about the prophecy that we do not?  It may well be that he is acting in good faith, and not against our interests."

"Even so, it would mean that he's withholding information.  That fact alone gives us cause for concern."

"Need I remind you that both you and I are guilty of that very same transgression?  Yet, only a few moments ago, we both agreed that the most prudent course of action was to allow these events to run their course and let the chips fall where they may.  What if Xander is simply doing the same?  If he possessed advance knowledge of the prophecy, it stands to reason that he might arrive at the same conclusion as we have."

"Perhaps.  But the only way to confirm that is to find out what he knows.  And the only way to accomplish that…"

"Is to confront Xander with what we know," Giles finished.  "Which brings us back to square one."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Outside**

Willow casually lifted an eye towards Dawn; casting a concerned glance at the young woman she had come to think of as much her own sister as she was Buffy's.  More than anything else, it was the girl's reaction, or, more accurately Willow reasoned, her lack thereof, that bothered her.  Despite everything Dawn had been through, and everything they'd learned over the past few days, the girl still somehow managed to project an unflappable, almost indifferent demeanor, seemingly untouched by the disturbing events unfolding around them.  Knowing Dawn as she did, Willow couldn't help but get the feeling that something was up.  After all, no sixteen-year-old girl could possibly go this long without speaking.  It just wasn't natural.

"So…. Dawn," Willow ventured, more to break the silence than anything else, "Have I told you what a convincing impersonation of an inanimate object you're doing?  I mean, first rate…really," she added, giving Dawn the proverbial 'thumbs up'.

Dawn raised an eyebrow in Willow's general direction, but didn't quite meet her gaze.  "To the untrained eye it may appear that I'm doing nothing, but I can assure you I'm quite busy at the cellular level."

"I don't suppose you feel like talking about it?"

Dawn hesitated, eyeing the other girl warily.  "Do I have a choice?"

Willow shook her head.  "I was kinda hoping you'd just say yes and save me the trouble of forcing the issue."

 "Well, when you put it that way, how can I say no?" Dawn replied flippantly.  "What is it you want to know?"

"For starters, how are things going on the domestic front?" It wasn't much, but you had to begin somewhere.

Dawn shrugged dismissively, staring vacantly off into the distance, watching as the mid afternoon sun cast long shadows over the neighborhood, her finger absently tracing a line in the dust on the patio table.  "As good as can be expected," she acknowledged after a long pause.  "I mean, we're both making a conscious effort.  Buffy's even trying to cook, for what it's worth."

"Buffy cooks?  Where was I when this happened?"

Dawn shrugged again.  "I said she was trying.  I never claimed success."

Willow smiled sympathetically, having sampled the results of Buffy's prior forays into the culinary arts.  "Betty Crocker's still sending you hate mail, huh?"

"Yeah, but it's less frequent now, and with fewer four-letter words.  And on the plus side, we're on a first-name basis with the fire department"

"But everything else is kosher?"

"With the possible exception of our impending doom, yes, everything's peachy.  We're like the Brady Bunch, only less annoying, and without the parental supervision."

"That's definitely of the good," Willow temporized, obviously trying to get at something else.  "So, are you and Buffy talking?"

"It's kinda hard to avoid," Dawn pointed out, "given that we live under the same roof."

"Right," Willow acknowledged.  "But does she ever…you know…talk about me?"

With that question, the two girls switched roles, Dawn assuming the part of the sympathetic friend.  "She doesn't hate you, Will," Dawn counseled, flashing the older girl a reassuring smile.  "In case you've forgotten, Buffy's kinda big on the whole forgive and forget philosophy of late."

"Well sure.  I mean, when it's a minor thing like trying to end the world.  But I was referring to, uh, more recent events."

"Oh, you mean like making Xander your cuddle monkey?"

"I probably wouldn't have used that term, but yeah, that's pretty much what I was getting at."

"She's wigged," Dawn conceded, which wasn't exactly an earth shattering revelation to either girl.

"I kinda noticed.  Is she mad?"

"Not so much.  She's confused, upset, and seriously in denial.  But if she's mad at anyone, it's herself."

"So it's true, then.  She's in love with Xander."

Dawn nodded.  "Apparently it's obvious to everyone except her and Xander," she supplied.  "Of course, she may not be the only one…"

Willow answered the implicit suggestion with a shake of the head.  "Do I have to keep reminding everyone that I'm still gay?" she asked with a rueful grin.  "I mean, I love Xander, but not in a 'the hills are alive', 'singing in the rain' kind of way."

"Must be kind of awkward, though" Dawn empathized.  "I mean, sleeping with your best friend and all."

"Why do you say that?"

"It's kind of hard not to notice, Wills.  The tension between the two of you is way obvious."

"But that's not…" Willow started, before thinking better of it and falling silent.

"Not what?" Dawn prodded, correctly intuiting the significance of Willow's verbal slip. 

"Nothing.  It's nothing for you to worry about."

"No," Dawn insisted, "you've got something face.  What is it you're not telling me?"

"It's nothing.  Well, okay, it's not 'nothing' nothing, but it's not really important."

"You know Will, lying's bad for the soul," Dawn lectured. "Take it from someone who knows."

"It's not like that, Dawn.  I'm not even sure that I understand it myself."

"Then maybe I can help you to understand.  Secrets…they tend to lead to badness," Dawn warned.  "And badness generally leads to me getting tied up, and not in a good way."

"There's a good way?"  That was news to Willow, who, despite suspicion to the contrary, had never actually played 'Mistress of Pain'.

"Focus Will.  Bondage…not really the relevant issue here."

Willow turned slightly from the other girl, breaking eye contact in a futile attempt to conceal what she was thinking.  "Sorry Dawny, my mind sort of wandered.  It does that on occasion."

Dawn hadn't been born yesterday.  Two years ago – yes – but definitely not yesterday.  "You were trying to change the subject, Will, which, I might add, will only strengthen my resolve."

"I was not trying to change the subject," Willow protested weakly, looking back up at Dawn, then allowing her gaze to shift past the girl to a familiar figure standing just beyond her.  Her half-hearted attempt at a smile quickly transformed into something else.   "If I wanted to do that, I would just point out that Spike is standing right behind you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

**SHS – That same time**

_"Right…okay.  Then there's just one more thing I need to know."_

_"And what is that?" Danyael asked patiently._

_"Buffy."_

_"That's not a question," Danyael pointed out._

_"Tell me about her."_

_"What is it you want to know?"_

_"The truth.  I want to know everything."_

"And that would put your mind at ease?" Danyael asked Xander.  "Give you some semblance of peace of mind?"

"I think we both know better than that, prophecy boy.  But I've at least earned the right to know why."

The Fallen angel nodded reluctantly.  "Far be it from me to say so," he allowed grudgingly, "But when you're right, you're right.  In hindsight, you should have told."

"In other words," Xander translated, "errors were made - others will be blamed.  Why don't we skip ahead to the part where my not-quite-potential-girlfriend has to die."

"You've got it all wrong, Xander," Danyael corrected.  "Despite what the prophecy may say, you have my word that this will not end with her death."

Now Xander was truly confused.  "But Whistler…. he told me…"

"He told you the truth," Danyael finished.  "He told you that Buffy Summers will die, and so she shall."

"Care to vague that up a little?" Xander asked, the anger rising in his voice.  "Look, I've done everything you asked.  I stood by and watched her die.  I stood by and did nothing as her life fell apart, did nothing as she slipped away from us all.  And now I'm tired.  I'm tired of the lies.  I'm tired of the riddles. I'm tired of the bullshit.  For once, just give it to me straight.  Please."

"I've done nothing but," Danyael countered calmly.  "The truth has always been right in front of you, Xander.  You just refuse to see it for what it is."

"Look, I'm not so good with the metaphorical bullshit, so why don't you just save us both a lot of time and tell me what it is I'm supposed to be seeing."

"Elizabeth is different," Danyael offered, fishing yet another cigarette from his pocket, seemingly undeterred by Xander's outburst,.  "She's unlike any Slayer that has come before her, unlike any that will follow."

"Yeah.  Buffy's one of a kind," Xander concurred, "I get that.  But why her?  Why now?"

"She was destined to give her life, Xander, not once, but twice.  When she came back to this realm, she had doubts…about herself, about her place in this world.  She believed she'd somehow come back wrong, returned something less than human.  But in that regard she was mistaken, even if she didn't realize how or why she was wrong."

"I know we didn't bring her back," admitted Xander.  "At least, not the way we intended to."

Danyael lit the cigarette, taking a long drag before continuing.  "It was a rather elegant charade," he allowed, exhaling a stream of perfectly concentric smoke rings.  "Your friend Willow had grown remarkably strong, imbued as she was with the white magic.  She was more than capable of restoring and reanimating Elizabeth's corporeal body."

"But it wouldn't have been her; wouldn't have been Buffy," Xander interjected.  I know we weren't responsible for that."

"No Xander, it wouldn't have been her.  Magics are capable of many things, capable even of summoning a lost soul from the ether.  But not even the most learned of conjurers may wrest a soul from Heaven.  That power is far beyond that possessed by either man or demon."

"But not beyond your power."

"Not even I wield that degree of power, Xander."

"But if not you, then…" Xander halted in mid sentence, belatedly grasping the significance of what Danyael was suggesting.  "Wait just a damn minute.  You mean to tell me that…"

"I am saying precisely that," Danyael interrupted.  "Elizabeth was sent back because her time in this world was not yet at an end.  She has a greater purpose in this life, one far beyond the calling of a Slayer."

"But that means that Buffy was right all along…she isn't human, at least not entirely."

If the truth behind Buffy's reincarnation had once succeeded in shocking Xander, then what he heard next shook him to the very core of his being.

Danyael gazed intently at the young man, a strange mixture of sympathy and amusement etched into his normally inscrutable features.  "What makes you think she ever was?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Willy's Place**

The sound of gunfire wasn't a particularly uncommon phenomenon at Willy's, even in the middle of the afternoon.  For the record, on that afternoon and as police reports should later – but would never – show, Buffy Anne Summers unofficially became the 21st gunshot casualty of the year.  As fate would have it, she also became the second fatality.  

At least, in a manner of speaking.

Ironically, it was Willy who first saw it coming.  There was just something about the man that struck him as overtly odd.  Maybe it was the man's appearance, knowing as Willy did the immutable fact that a human being had no earthly business setting foot in this place, especially one that looked every bit the part of a hapless businessman.  Or perhaps it was his mannerisms, the shaking hands belying the man's obvious discomfort, beads of sweat cascading down his forehead despite the coolness of the conditioned air inside.  Whatever the reason, Willy should have known, long before he saw the gun in the man's hand.

Of course, he tried to alert the Slayer.  And were it not for the deceptively strong hand currently wrapped around his neck, Willy might have succeeded.  As it was, his warning came out as an unintelligible hiss, the unrelenting force of her grip strangling his windpipe, preventing the flailing bartender from uttering anything even remotely comprehensible.  Had the Slayer exhibited a bit more prudence, or even a modicum of patience, Willy's otherwise futile attempt might have proven beneficial.  But the Slayer was well past the point of rational thought; driven as she was by forces she could neither control nor comprehend, Buffy was incapable of preventing what had been foretold.  

And so it came to be that, with the focused application of just a few pounds of pressure to an otherwise unremarkable metal level, Hank Summers triggered into being a chain of events that would forever change the world, and in doing so, sealed his own fate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Pacific Coast Highway**

**Just outside Sunnydale**

As chance would have it, there were not one, not two, but three Slayers whose grip on life was far more tenuous than each fully appreciated.  Careening down the winding asphalt ribbon at speeds exceeding 100 mph, Faith Mackenzie was about to learn that lesson the hard way, and with it, the realization that despite what she'd succeeded in convincing herself, there were indeed limits to self-determination.

The man sitting beside her – that is, the one not currently riddled with bullet holes – was the first to see it coming.  He'd spent much of the ride sitting maintaining a silent vigil, keeping a watchful eye on events unfolding both inside and outside the automobile.  Experience had taught him that the worst kind of trouble was that which tended to sneak up on you from behind, and for that reason, he'd spent most of his time peering out the back window, alert to any potential danger.  In that regard, he wouldn't be disappointed.

It appeared at first as a tiny speck in the sky, a rapidly growing dot approaching the truck from several miles out.  The man kept his eyes trained on the unwelcome sight, watching raptly as it grew in size, feeling a large knot growing inside his stomach.  He cursed himself silently for not being better prepared.  It had been his idea to forego any heavy weaponry for this mission, reasoning that Wolfram & Hart would have struck by now, if it had indeed been their intention to eliminate the Slayer.  The unmistakable 'whump-whump' of the approaching rotary aircraft belied that belief.

"We've got company," he warned his counterparts, simultaneously clambering over the back seat into the rear cargo area.  "Chopper inbound at our five-o'clock."  

The driver acknowledged the warning with a surreptitious glance at the passenger side mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of the potential threat.  "Friendly?" he asked his counterpart, harboring a glimmer of optimism, though he logically suspected otherwise.

"Wouldn't bet on it," the older man in back advised, keeping one eye on the unwelcome arrival.  "Check with dispatch just to be sure."

The passenger-seat agent grabbed the console-mounted radio, hoping against hope that the unknown aircraft was one of their own.  "Six, this is Wild-Card," he uttered tersely.  "Be advised, we're en-route on PCH, ETA eight minutes, and it looks like we've got party crashers."

The response came instantly.  "Wild-Card, this is Six.  Please advise as to nature of threat."

"Six, we have an unknown chopper approaching.  Bogey is approximately two miles at our five-o'clock and closing fast.  I don't suppose it's one of ours?"

"Negative Wild-Card.  No known friendly air assets in the vicinity."  A brief pause, then:  "Do you require assistance?"

"That's affirmative, Six.  Tell those army flyboys to get off their asses and give us some goddamned air cover."

The brief static that followed was quickly replaced by the familiar voice.  "Roger that, Wild-Card.  Be advised:  Air support is en-route.  ETE ten minutes."

The agent closed his eyes slowly in resignation, his fears officially confirmed; there would be help for them, at least none that would matter.  "Thanks Six," he acknowledged, unable to conceal the considerable sarcasm in his voice.  "Wild-Card out."

He glanced up into the rear-view mirror, addressing the other occupants of the vehicle.  "Well folks, it looks like we're on our own.  I suggest you all fasten your seat belts and keep your heads down," he admonished, ostentatiously shifting his gaze to Faith.  "It's gonna get a little bumpy."

For once, Faith did as she was told, buckling her lap belt and tucking her upper body down in front of the seat back.  She didn't appreciate being given orders, but when it involved people shooting at her, she felt slightly more inclined to do so.  Meanwhile, the agent in the back of the truck was opening the built-in cargo compartment set into the floor.  He pulled out a large rectangular metal case, struggling to maintain his balance in the swerving vehicle.  As he punched the memorized combination into the cases' cipher lock, he hazarded a glance out the rear window.  

The chopper had now closed to within a mile, descending lower than 100 feet AGL in an attempt to confuse any potential counterattack with thermal guided weapons.  The pilot couldn't have known that the occupants carried no such weapons, and that, at least, worked in the marshals' favor.  Thankful for this minor godsend, the agent pulled the M95 rifle from its foam-lined case, sliding a detachable 10X scope into place atop the weapon.  Working quickly, he attached a bipod to the bottom of the barrel, locking the short metal legs into place.  Finally, he slapped a five-round magazine of .50 caliber rounds into place near the rifle's breech, working the bolt-action to chamber a round.  Having assembled the weapon (in fewer than fifteen seconds no-less) he turned to face the approaching interloper, triggering a small button concealed within the floor compartment.  A concealed gun-port immediately opened in the rear window, and the marshal obediently swung the rifle in that direction, resting the small bipod atop the rifle case to stabilize the weapon.  Placing his eye to the scope, he mentally estimated the range to the weaving chopper, and dialed in the appropriate settings.  His preparation complete, he took a closer look at the approaching aircraft, which he readily identified as a UH-1 "Huey", the venerable – if outdated – helicopter that had found service in the US Army for so many years.  That the aircraft sported externally mounted "Zuni" rocket pods and twin 20mm mini-guns did not escape his notice.  

From the front seat came the voice of the senior agent.  "How we looking back there?"

The rifleman took a moment to answer, managing to do so in a calm voice in spite of his reservations.  "Professional assessment?  We're FUBAR," he replied evenly, using the unofficial military acronym to convey that they were indeed about to be 'fucked up beyond all recognition'.  

The driver responded without word, pressing the accelerator to the floor as his training dictated.  The supercharged ten-cylinder engine reacted instantly, pushing the lightly armored SUV past 120 mph, still accelerating.  Despite the situation, the driver's expression betrayed none of the anxiety he was feeling.  He knew implicitly, as did the others, that the tactical situation was not promising.  They were still a good fifteen miles from Sunnydale, sorely lacking in anti-aircraft weapons, and without any attendant air support.  He knew there were Air Cav elements operating out of the army base near Sunnydale, but he was also cognizant of the fact that by the time they'd arrive on station, this engagement would be long over, for better or worse.  Putting aside the apparent futility of the situation in favor of temporary survival, he focused on his driving, weaving in and out of moderate traffic, exhibiting a talent that would have impressed even the most veteran of NASCAR drivers.  

The senior marshal, sitting opposite the driver, discarded his usual S&W 10mm for the Heckler & Koch stowed away in the glove box.  He turned to face the Slayer, machine pistol in hand.  "You still with us, Faith?" he asked with a lopsided smile, extending the handgun to faith, butt first.

"Like a bad habit," Faith shot back, returning the smile.   She reached for the proffered weapon, obstinately refusing to show any fear in front of these men.  As her fingers closed around the customized wood grain handgrip, the situation took a decided turn for the worse.  

If there were still any lingering questions as to the intentions of the approaching aircraft, they were put to rest as a burst of 20mm rounds tore into the Suburban's Kevlar armor plating, sending glass, and bodies, flying.   Ducking instinctively to avoid the hail of bullets, Faith grasped frantically for her seatbelt in an effort to unclasp it, only to find it had been torn away by one of the offending rounds.   She pulled back her hand, startled to find it covered in blood.   _Shit, _she thought fleetingly._  I survive two goddamned years in prison only to get my ass shot off in the drive-by from hell.  _With no small bit of trepidation, Faith glanced down at her right leg, quickly locating the source of the blood.  The same shot that had freed her from the confines of her seat belt had apparently left its mark on her as well, passing cleanly through her thigh on its journey forward.  Almost as an afterthought, she glanced toward the front of the vehicle, following the logical trajectory of the bullet, and was shocked to see the driver slumped forward over the steering wheel.  On instinct, Faith lunged forward, intending to grab the wheel, but was surprised to find that her body would not cooperate.  Her adrenaline rush subsiding, she realized belatedly that her leg was broken, and that she was bleeding out.

The man in back was not faring much better than his counterparts.  He'd managed to squeeze off a few rounds at the approaching chopper, but at this range, firing from an unstable platform, he might as well have been throwing pebbles.  By some miracle, he'd avoided the first burst of fire.  His rifle, however, had not been so fortunate.  As he picked himself up from the floor, he'd been dismayed to find his trusty Barrett cleaved in two, the polished metal barrel laying uselessly at his feet.

Hanging halfway out the front passenger window, the senior agent, oblivious to Faith's condition, futilely emptied his entire clip out the passenger side window, his usual marksmanship negated by both the wildly swerving vehicle, and the limited range of the MP-5.  Casting a look back inside the truck, he was horrified to see his friend and colleague slumped forward, obviously unconscious, and likely dead as well.   The man lunged for the steering wheel, grabbing hold of it even as the truck careened off the pavement and onto the sandy shoulder of the highway.  In his excitement, he overcorrected, jerking the steering wheel too far to the right.  Still traveling at nearly 100 mph, the top-heavy truck lifted momentarily off the ground, proceeding to turn end over end in a grotesque barrel roll.  With the sickening sound of crunching metal, the doomed vehicle rolled for several hundred feet, its unrestrained occupants tossed about violently like oversized rag dolls.   Amid a cloud of dust and leaking fluids, the metal hulk finally came to a stop, its smoking corpse coming to rest inverted against a rocky outcrop.

In the wake of the wreckage the bodies of both the senior agent and the rifleman could be seen sprawled lifelessly, each of them tossed from the rolling vehicle by the extreme centripetal force.  The driver still sat unmoving in the front seat, suspended from his safety belt, which had ultimately proven useless.  The same shot that had felled the Slayer had also struck him, passing through the seat back and into his heart, instantly obliterating the organ, thereby sparing him the pain of the crash.  Further back, the mortally wounded Slayer lie unmoving on the roof of the upside-down truck.  Though she could still see and hear, Faith had no illusions about her condition.  Unable to move, she lie still, gasping desperately for air, each precious breath coming harder then the previous, a tortuous prelude that could and would lead only to a final, macabre conclusion.  

Part of her wanted to cry, to shout out against the indignity of her demise.  It wasn't supposed to end like this.  She was a Slayer; a warrior in the purist sense of the word.  It was her given birthright, her code of honor, to die at the hands of some godforsaken demon, not to suffer the humiliation of perishing in something so mundane as a car wreck, even if the circumstances of which were not exactly pedestrian.  But most of all, Faith wanted to cry out for her regrets.  More than anything, Faith had desired closure, sought redemption in the eyes of the people who'd meant more to her than anyone, even if she'd never admitted as much to anyone but herself.  It seemed that once more, she would be denied even that chance.  _It's not fair, _she railed inwardly, _wanted to do so much…say so many things.  God, B, I'm sorry…so damn sorry.  Wasn't supposed to be like this.  Wasn't supposed to end this way.  I wanted to tell you how I felt, wanted to set things right between us.  Wanted to…wanted to…_

As she felt the cold hand of death announce its imminent arrival, Faith's remaining senses began to obediently fade into oblivion.  Her hearing failing, she could barely make out distant, muted sound of an violent explosion, followed by softly approaching footsteps in the sand.   _Footsteps in the sand?  Footprints in the sand?  _It was all strangely familiar to Faith.  _Heard that somewhere before.  Sum'thin 'bout footprints in the sand.  Yeah, that's it…footprints in the sand.    _

The sound of footsteps ceased in her ears, replaced by an eerie and absolute silence.  As her vision tunneled and faded to black, the last sight Faith saw was that of a man in white, smiling down peacefully at her shattered form.

And then her eyes closed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	20. In Media Res

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel 

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Summary:_ Alternate version of season 7.  The real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the entire human race.  This story is primarily B/X, kids, so don't expect any B/S.  Necrophilia is such a turnoff.

_Disclaime__r:_ I'm worth more dead than alive (i.e. I own jack squat).  Please don't tell my relatives.  They're greedy, opportunistic, and they've been giving me that look again.

_Spoilers__:_ (BTVS) Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out, rewrite, or outright ignore certain unsavory aspects.   Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3.

_Rating:_R, for violence, strong language, and the wanton abuse of literary license. 

_Feedback:_  Constructive criticism, comments, and suggestions are greatly appreciated.  Flames will be used to burn couches.  Couches?  Yes, you read correctly, I said couches.  Don't ask.  You wouldn't understand anyway.  

_Note 1_:  As always, thanks to all who've taken the time to post a review, especially RobClark, Ghostrider, Gijsbrecht, WBH21C, Greywizard, Smeghead, Layce74, Randall Flagg, the overburdened miss Lori B, and all others not mentioned here, but appreciated nonetheless.  Oh, and Unix!Rules?  Fear not, for you'll be seeing more of our favorite redhead in subsequent chapters.unless I kill her off.  

_Note 2:_  In a previous chapter, Xander mentioned that Giles voted for Al Gore in the 2000 Presidential election.  However, as Giles is a resident alien, and not a U.S. citizen, he could not legally vote.  Since nobody has pointed this out, I hereby invoke the _suspension of disbelief _clause, and choose to ignore this inconvenient fact.  I guess that's why they call it fan_fiction._

_Note 3:_I apologize in advance if I've misquoted Whistler in any way, shape or form.  My mind's not what it used to be, and in all honesty, it wasn't much to begin with.

_Dedication_:  To 2004, and the endless possibilities of the New Year.  I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to the half of the world's population I've managed to offend in my relatively short tenure on this rock.  And to the remaining 3 billion or so I haven't yet pissed off?  Don't worry, the year is still young J

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Words of Wisdom:  "_I got suspended from school today.they found a switchblade in my locker.I took a swing at a cop. I'm just mad all the time_." - Bart Simpson

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**Chapter 20:  "In Media Res"**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For once, Whistler had gotten it right.  

Bottom line.even if you see it coming, you're not ready for the big things.  

In the final calculation, given the benefit of hindsight and the clarity of resolution, the truth was always obvious.  No big shock there.  Of course, it wasn't always that easy.  In reality, even when you knew what was coming, even when you knew how to deal with it, you simply weren't prepared for the aftermath.   You had no way of knowing, of coping, of adapting.  Bottom line.even when you won, you lost.

Nobody asks for their life to change.  The big moments are gonna come.  You can't help that.

And come they had.  The dominos were falling, one by one, and there wasn't jack squat anyone could do about it.  The truth of the matter is, you can't stop what's inevitable.  If it's meant to be, it's meant to be, and that's that.  It wasn't fate, or karma, or any of that.  It just was, and you either dealt with it or you didn't.  That was really the only choice you had.  

It's what you do afterward that counts.  

The hard part was what came next.  To put it simply, you basically have two choices.  You either a) ride the storm out, and let the cards fall wherever they may; or b) Ride the storm out, and do your damnedest to stack the deck in your favor.  Confused?  That's all right.  Everybody is at first.  But don't worry.

You'll see what I mean.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pacific Coast Highway Outskirts of Sunnydale 

He stood ankle deep in the blowing sand, gazing dispassionately through the remains of the shattered windshield at the broken body lying beyond.  He knew she was dying, could see the life draining from the girl's still form as her breaths came in increasingly shallow gasps.  An empath, he also knew that she was afraid; had known that she, like all other mortals, would try desperately to deny the inevitable and absolute nature of death when confronted with the end.  In that regard, he wasn't disappointed.  He could sense the panic and denial running through the girl's mind, could envision the endless litany of regrets and "what-ifs" playing out before her disbelieving eyes as her entire world slowly faded into nothingness.  

_It was the same, _he reminded himself.  _It was always the same.  Different people.different circumstances.same result.  _They lived their entire lives cognizant of their own mortality, knowing that one day, their card would be punched, and that there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it.  Naturally though, when the time came - and it always did - they begged for a second chance, pleading with a God they'd never really believed in, entreating him for another chance, in exchange for promising to live a more righteous and enlightened life.  _Not that any of them would have done so, _he reasoned, _arrogant little bastards that they were.  _

Of course, their irrational fear of death did ultimately serve its purpose, which is why he was here in the first place.  Toward that end, he'd given serious consideration to expediting the process.  It wasn't that he wanted to spare the little whore any undue pain and suffering.  For certain, that was the only part he really took any pleasure in.   But, he reminded himself, he did have a job to do, a greater purpose to serve than his own amusement, and that took precedence.  Of course, he rationalized, she'd be dead in a minute or so at any rate, so there was really no need to take matters upon himself.  Besides, if it so happened that she suffered a minute or two longer, who was he to deny himself such a basic pleasure?

With a smile on his face - albeit one that only qualified as angelic by default of his lineage - he stepped to the wrecked skeleton of the Chevrolet, fragments of glass from the shattered windshield crunching noisily beneath his feet.  Moving within reach of the overturned vehicle, he dropped to one knee, acutely aware of the irony of a being such as he appearing to genuflect, more so given what he had in store for the girl.  With that thought, he motioned to the stilled form of the Slayer, beckoning the dying girl with a curled finger.  The Slayer neither acknowledged the gesture, nor moved of her own accord.  Nonetheless, her smashed body began to move toward the front of the overturned truck, drawn to the evil visage in white by some unknown force.   The dying girl slowly inched forward, the injury to her body compounded by the shards of glass strewn about the front of the vehicle.  Not that it mattered.  The girl was beyond the capabilities of medical science to save her at this point.  Her only hope, it seemed, was the one who now crouched over her body, laying his hand upon her head.

"_Open your eyes, Faith_," he commanded her, without saying a word aloud.  "_Look at me, if you want to live_."

On cue, Faith's eyes flitted open, though in them registered neither the comprehension nor recognition of human consciousness.  For death had already seized the girl in its clutches, her body rapidly shutting down, no longer able to sustain life, despite its best efforts.  With dead eyes, she looked upward, into the expectant gaze or the First true evil.

"_You must listen to me, Faith_," the man implored her, his mouth unmoving.  "_I can save you, but I need your cooperation.  You must know what death has in store for you; know what will become of you.  If you would promise me but one thing, I could spare you that fate_."

Faith did not respond verbally.  She blinked once, twice, then a third time, trying plaintively to rationalize the irrational from behind uncomprehending eyes.  She wanted to cry out, to scream, but she could not even speak.  Not that it ultimately mattered, for her every thought was broadcast as clearly as if spoken aloud.

_"Am I dead?" _she asked.

The man smiled again_.  Not yet, _he thought to himself.  "_You are only dead if you so desire to be, Faith.  Is that what you want?_"__

"No.God, no.  Please.  Help me."

"_I will help you, Faith.  But first you must do something for me._"

Even without speaking aloud, Faith's confusion was evident.  _"W-who are you?  What do you want from me?"_

He remained smiling.  "_Who I am is not important, Faith.  And what I want from you is a promise. A solemn vow that in exchange for your life, you will do whatever I say, whenever I say it, without hesitation.  Do you swear to me that you will do so_?"

Even through the haze of death (or whatever the hell this was), Faith could see the danger signs.  _"...Don't understand.. don't know what you want from me.why you want me."_

The smile began to show signs of wear.  "_The only thing you need to understand is what will happen to you if you choose not to cooperate, Faith.  I am a patient individual Faith, infinitely more so than you could ever hope to understand.  But even my patience has its limit_."  

Without another word, he took hold of her head in his hands, the tips of his gnarled fingers roughly probing the surface of her skull, in search of what lie within.  She wanted to protest, to beg him not to do whatever it was he had planned for her, but she found herself unable, surrendering herself to his devices.  

In total control, the man looked deeply into her eyes, his piercing gaze boring unhindered into the innermost recesses of Faith's mind, seeking out her most personal thoughts and memories, and in them, her deepest fears.  A strange sensation permeated Faith's body, beginning deceptively, announcing itself as only a small, harmless tingle, but growing rapidly, agonizingly, in intensity, until it resembled first a severe electric shock, then ultimately a million simultaneous bursts of lightning, wreaking unimaginable torment on her weakened body and mind.  For what seemed like hours - in reality only mere seconds - the pain ravaged her soul, accompanied by grotesque, hellish images dancing before her terrified blinded eyes, images fueled by her greatest fears and worst nightmares.  The devil in angel's clothing showed Faith her own personal hell, feeding upon her doubts, regrets, and insecurities, giving her a vision of a world devoid of reason, a world without love, bereft of hope, and fueled by the hate and pain of a billion tortured souls, including her own.  Deep down, she knew it wasn't real, not in the physical sense of the word, wasn't part of the here and now, but that didn't make the pain any less real.  She tried to scream, to beg, to plead, anything to spare her this hellish torment, but was unable to do so.  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, it stopped, ending just as suddenly as it had begun.

With tears streaming unabashedly down her face, Faith found her inner voice.  "_W-_w_hat was that?  What the hell did you do to me?"_

He removed his hand from her forehead, roughly cupping her trembling chin between his thumb and forefinger.  He lifted her head until their eyes met.  "_What I did was show you your future, Faith.  I gave you a glimpse of what awaits you on the other side of death.  Now do you understand?  You have a choice to make, and you must make it now.  You have seen what awaits you beyond this life.  I could spare you that fate, and all I ask in return is a simple promise."_

Faith's eyes widened, the hopelessness of the situation reflected within.  _Hell_.  _The end of the line for wayward Slayers.  Do not pass go; do not collect two hundred fucking dollars.  _She had tried to dismiss it, had told herself it was all a big lie.  There was no God.  No Satan.  No Heaven.  No Hell.  Just life and death.birth and the big dirt nap.   The circle of life.  That's all there was to it, or so she'd tried to convince herself so many times.  But she knew better. _ Dammit.  Wanted to make amends.tried so damn hard to make things right with the world, with Buffy.  And I failed.again._

Faith looked back at the man who held her life in his hands, seeing beyond the obsidian orbs, looking to the darkness and hatred raging within.  She knew who he was, and more importantly, what he represented.  _"Please.don't make me choose," _she begged of him.  _"I can't do that.  I won't betray them.not again."_

_"You can," _he enjoined her, _"and you will.  Or would you prefer the alternative?"_

He touched her temple again, unleashing once more the torment of Faith's own personal hell.  This time, he allowed her to scream, to cry out at the top of her unbreathing lungs, to beg him for release from the terrible pain.  An interminable moment passed, the pain subsided, and Faith again found herself looking into the face of evil. 

It was almost more than her mind could bear.  The images haunted her, seared into her faltering consciousness, proclaiming the undeniable truth about what had once been, was now, and would forever be.  She was weak; a traitor to a world that had never really wanted her, Faith admitted to herself in those final moments, plagued with doubt and self-loathing, her actions governed by fear, her emotions suborned to an all consuming hatred born of her own perceived mistreatment.  She'd been given a second chance, a chance to redeem herself, to live up to her God-given potential, and in doing so, restore the honor she had fought so long and hard to ignore.   More than anything, she wanted to be brave, to face her end with dignity, and with her final act of defiance, to find the peace and serenity that somehow eluded her in life.  But the strength and resolve that had sustained her in life had now abandoned her in the face of death, leaving her to the devices of the very evil she was sworn to oppose.  

She felt the darkness returning, a tidal wave surging against her own will, threatening to overwhelm the thin veneer of resolve lingering within her broken body.  _"Let it go, Faith", _the voice admonished.  _"Just say the word, and it will all be over.  No more pain, no more doubt.  Just give me your word, and it will all go away."_

She fought against herself, her physical and spiritual selves in polar opposition to one another, her mouth forming the words even as her mind screamed in protest.  _"W-won't do it.  Not this time.  Never again."  _But she was fighting a hopeless battle in a war she could not hope to win.  

With her last ounce of strength, the Slayer looked helplessly into the face of death, preparing to utter the words he'd been waiting to hear.

"_I swear_.."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Giles' House The images played across the ancient television screen, endless lines of olive-green vehicles parading in front of the cameras in a scene evocative of countless Russian May Day parades of yesteryear.  Only the Cold War had long since ended, and the feed wasn't being broadcast from the Eastern Europe, or even a third-world country for that matter.  The live broadcast originated from downtown Los Angeles.  

"Ladies and gentlemen, today we bear witness to a new and terrifying phase in the history of these United States.  Only a few hours ago, President Bush, in response to the wave of recent terror attacks, issued an Executive Order declaring martial law in effect for all of greater Los Angeles County.  Congress, in a symbolic gesture of support for the unprecedented move, voted 430-104, with one abstention, to approve the President's actions.

_By order of the presiding military authority, a curfew has been enacted for all residents of Los Angeles, in effect from midnight to 6 a.m.  Any person found to be in violation of the curfew, without due cause, will be subject to incarceration and prosecution by the convening military authority.  To enforce the curfew, the President has, by virtue of Executive Order, federalized the California Army National and Air National Guard. _

_As you can see from the live video, mechanized elements of the National Guard are rolling into the city as I speak, establishing security checkpoints on all major thoroughfares and outside of all federal buildings.  Residents are advised to remain inside their homes if at all possible.  All schools and federal offices are to be closed indefinitely.  All non-essential federal, state, and local employees are not to report to work until further notice, and travelers are being advised to avoid travel to the greater Los Angeles area."  _

The anchor fell silent for a moment, holding a hand to his earpiece.  "_I've just been informed by our Los Angeles affiliate that Los Angeles International Airport, by decree of the Adjutant General of California, has been closed indefinitely to all commercial air traffic.  All inbound flights have been re-routed to alternate destinations, and all outbound flights are cancelled until further notice.  Additionally, regional."_

Rupert Giles clicked off the remote control, effectively silencing the familiar voice of the CNN news commentator.  "Well then, it seems that answers one question."

From the chair opposite the Watcher, Wesley nodded in agreement.  "A rather shrewd move on the part of the Americans, I dare say.   Of course, it's only a matter of time before they turn their attentions a little closer to home."

"But against whom.or what?  The enemy has yet to make so much as a single overt move, much less show its face."

"I don't disagree with your assessment," Wes acknowledged grudgingly.  "But, for the sake of argument, put yourself in their shoes; what would you have done in their position?"

Giles grunted, rather uncharacteristically for the reserved Brit.  "The bloody American president must be beside himself with joy at the prospect."

The younger man offered a half-assed smile in response, unconsciously strumming his fingers on the coffee table.  "There is sort of a karmic justice to it," he mused alive.

"Rather so, I should think," Giles reluctantly admitted, bristling at the sheer audacity of the Republican President in ordering the invasion, even if for what were apparently altruistic reasons.   He lifted a half-full glass to his lips, downing the remainder of the single-malt scotch before continuing.  "Unfortunately, that leaves us with the likelihood that we'll be crossing paths with the ensuing military operation in our own backyard.  I dare say that bodes ominously for our chances of success, given our past history with the Initiative."

"I hate to admit it, Rupert, but I should think it may well be in our best interests that they should be here, at least for the time being.  Given the circumstances, we could do with a bit of additional firepower.  I don't think I'm alone in fearing that pointy wooden sticks aren't going to get the job done this time."

Giles graciously conceded the point.  "Perhaps.  Though I would feel better knowing exactly what their intentions are.  I fear we have enough surprises awaiting us as is."

Wesley opened his mouth to reply, only to stop dead in his tracks.  The sight that greeted him was not one he'd been expecting to see, though, given his questionable past, was not exactly alien to him.  Centered on Giles' chest, directly between the rumpled lapels of his unbuttoned tweed jacket, was a perfectly round red dot.  With a growing sense of dread, Wesley slowly turned his head, tracking the light beam back to its point of origin, even as his former colleague became uncharacteristically subdued.  Confirming Wesley's worst fears, he found himself staring into the muzzle of a laser-sighted submachine gun, brandished by a serious looking individual decked out in black Kevlar body armor.  The presence of three additional similarly outfitted men suggested to Wesley that he, too, was the unwilling recipient of an identical red dot.

He turned back to Giles, his voice heavily laden with sarcasm.  "You were saying, Rupert."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Outside Giles' House 

The warning implicit in the combination of the words '_Spike_' and '_standing right behind you'_ did not go unheeded by the youngest of the Summers girls, especially given the time of day and the aforementioned vampire's profound aversion to sunlight.  Spinning around, Dawn's jaw nearly hit the ground as her eyes beheld a heretofore-unthinkable sight.  Standing just a few feet away, his pale form casting a warped midday shadow on the patio brick, was the very monster Dawn had that very morning sworn revenge upon.  

"Spike?" Dawn gaped in awe at the unthinkable sight, unable to believe her own eyes.  "Spike!"

The prodigal vampire's pale lips curled upward into a twisted facsimile of a smile, unlit cigarette dangling precariously between them.  "'Ello, Nibblet," he greeted the stunned girl.  "Long time no see.  How you been, cutie?"

Despite her initial shock, Dawn quickly recovered her composure.  "What.what the hell are you doing here?" she demanded haltingly, jumping from her seat to face Spike, even as Willow's reassuring hand appeared on her shoulder.

The vampire paused to light his cigarette, savoring the moment as long as he could.  "Oh, I don't know," he hedged, taking a deep drag off the smoke.  "Thought I'd drop by, see how the old gang's doing.  Maybe grab a bite to eat."

For the second time that day, Dawn cursed herself for leaving her purse - and the stake it contained - in Xander's truck.  She eyed the vampire with less than subtle hatred, gritting her teeth.  "Why?  Didn't get your fill last night?"

The vampire's smile widened.  As much as he consciously desired to kill the girl, he couldn't help but admire her grim sense of humor, and the underlying pain responsible for it.  Truth be known, he hadn't really intended for his new childe to kill Dawn, what with his 'employers' plans for the little tart.  Still, the thought of snapping her slender little neck held great appeal, Wolfram & Harts' intentions notwithstanding.  "Not so much," he acknowledged magnanimously.  "Snogging the little bint was like eating Chinese - an hour later, I was hungry again."

Spike's choice of words struck a decidedly sour chord with Dawn, who struggled to keep her growing rage in check.  "Go fuck yourself," she spat, restrained from physically assaulting the vampire only by Willow's firm grip.

"What.no hug?" Spike asked, feigning disappointment.

"You are so fucking dead," Dawn muttered, her voice barely rising above a whisper.  The intent, however, came across clearly. 

"Hate to disappoint you, _luv_," Spike offered, accentuating the last word, "but in case you hadn't noticed, I'm already dead."

"I think you mean Undead," Dawn spat out, still struggling against Willow's grasp.  "But I can fix that for you."

Willow looked on silently, taking in the entire exchange with morbid fascination.  Dawn's initial hatred for the vampire wasn't exactly surprising, given what he'd done - or at least had attempted to do - to Buffy.  But it was obvious there was a more personal matter at play here, something more than Spike's attempted rape of Dawn's sister, and it didn't take a genius to realize exactly what the something was.  "You son of a bitch!" she snarled, surprised by the intensity of her own growing sense of outrage.  "How could you?"

"Wasn't all that hard," Spike admitted with a dismissive shrug.  "You just go for the jugular, and the rest kind of takes care of itself.  If you'd like, I could demonstrate on Niblet here."

"Now might be a good time to shut your mouth," Willow advised, her usually cool demeanor showing signs of fraying.  "Unless you want me to shut it for you."

Spike suppressed the urge to laugh, knowing full well what the witch was capable of.  "Now, now, Red.  Watch that nasty temper of yours.  Wouldn't want to go all veiny again, would we?  Not good for the 'ole complexion."

"Neither is the sunlight," Willow retorted, taking a step towards the vampire. "And yet here you are."  

"Heard a little sun was good for the ol digestive process," Spike explained, staring pointedly at Dawn as he dabbed absently at the thick layer of protective sunscreen covering his face.  "Got me a bit of a bellyache, I do.  Must've eaten something that didn't agree with me."

Willow smiled coldly back at Spike, tightening her grip on Dawn as she extended a single finger toward the unrepentant vampire.  "You might want to get your priorities straight," she suggested, a ball of flame spontaneously appearing above her fingertip.  "I don't think a little tummy ache's your biggest concern at the moment." 

Spike wasn't one to back down either.  "Gonna take more than a little fireworks display to scare me away, pet.  See, the sunscreen's what you Scoobies might call a contingency plan."  He held up his hand, revealing an ancient, if vaguely familiar, piece of jewelry.  "Did a little accessorizing."

Dawn recognized the ring for what it was, though she didn't let on.  "Where'd you get that?" she asked flippantly, referring to the gaudy Gem of Amara that Spike now sported.  "Queer eye for the undead guy?"

"Made me some knew friends," he disclosed with a wink, shrugging off the implied insult.  "Friends with nice toys.  You like?"

Dawn didn't.  "If you think that ring's gonna save your skinny albino ass, you're in for one hell of a nasty fucking surprise."

"Well, well" Spike retorted, leering suggestively at the younger of the two girls as he boldly stepped closer, now nearly nose to nose with the younger of the girls.  "Look who's all grown up and using big girl words.  Ya know Niblet, you're starting to remind me a lot of that whore of a sister of yours.  If you're lucky, I just might have a go at you too.  Been a while since I've had me a good shag."

"I think you've overstayed your welcome, Spike," Willow insisted, moving with astonishing speed as she grabbed the vampire by the neck, lifting him bodily off the ground with one hand. Spike struggled briefly, wildly, attempting to break the witch's iron grasp, before accepting the inherent futility of his actions.  He raised his hands in mock surrender, chuckling in spite of his apparent situation. 

"Might want to reconsider the violence, luv.  You're not exactly the one holding all the cards here."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Willow demanded tersely, tightening her grip around his throat.

"Why don't you see for yourself," Spike rasped, nodding in the direction of the back door as it swung open.  

Willow dropped Spike, whirling around, eyes widening in shock as she beheld both Giles and Wesley marched unceremoniously outside, fingers laced behind their heads, automatic weapons trained at their backs.  Four men followed them through the door, each decked out in matching black fatigues and sporting similar hostile expressions.  Giles glanced over at the girls, mouthing a silent apology for his uncharacteristic carelessness.  

Spike, meanwhile, was paying no particular attention to the spectacle.  As Willow turned her head, his hand darted out, grabbing a startled Dawn by the hair, pulling the girl away from her distracted bodyguard.  Upon hearing Dawn's cry, Willow spun back around, cursing herself for letting down her guard.

"Let her go, Spike!" Willow warned threateningly, her anger rapidly rising, accompanied by a marked chill in the surrounding air.

"Bugger off, pet," Spike shot back, drawing his arm tighter around a struggling Dawn's neck, "unless you want to spend the next week scraping bits and pieces of Watcher off the patio."

Willow glanced helplessly at Dawn, then back to the subdued Watchers, frantically considering her options.  "_Giles", _she pleaded, resorting to telepathic communication, "_A little help?"_

In spite of the situation, Giles' reassuring - if telepathic - voice helped to calm her.  "_Don't let them take her, Willow.  Whatever you do, you mustn't let them take Dawn."_

_"But what about.I mean if I.then they'll.?"_

_"You mustn't worry about us," _Giles insisted._  "Do whatever you have to do, but protect Dawn at all costs."_

The possibility scared Willow to no end.  _"Even if I have too."_

"Yes, Willow, even if you have to kill them."

What happened next was not exactly clear to anyone present.  Each of them - that is, those who survived the ensuing fracas - would come remember the events of the day differently.  For Willow, Giles' admonition, and the undeniable fact that Spike was dragging Dawn further away by the second, was all she needed to know, and all she would ever really recall.  Before any one could stop her, she took did what she did best, her gaze shooting skyward, her lips uttering a brief mystical incantation.  

As she spoke the words, Willow felt it happening again, knowing even then that she couldn't be saved, could never go back.  The beautiful mane of red hair was gone, turned jet-black as she yielded to the power, allowing it to wash unhindered over her body.  The sky overhead darkened perceptibly, a portent of things to come.  As the storm clouds gathered, her lovely blue eyes glazed over, the spark within extinguished as the darkness seeped in, obscuring the humanity residing there only moments before.   As she closed her eyes, surrendering once and for all time to the Magics, a lone bolt of lightning emerged from angry sky and streaked toward the earth, splitting seamlessly into four separate arcs as it struck ground, sending a lethal dose of voltage coursing through the bodies of the armed intruders.  

The nearest of them had no more than leveled his weapon at Willow before it erupted in a brilliant ball of flame, instantly engulfing the hapless man.  He died where he stood, screaming in agony, his cries drowned out by an impossibly loud crack of thunder.  The next two fared even worse, failing to so much as train their firearms in the direction of the attack.  Death came painfully, if not instantly, to both.

The remaining gunman fared slightly better than his comrades, his index finger tightening around the trigger of his Heckler and Koch as his body spasmed in the throes of death.  As he breathed his last, he managed to level his weapon, spraying a lethal stream of lead about the courtyard, felling both Watchers before he, too, met the same fate as his colleagues.

Willow watched dispassionately as the four assailants perished, knowing even then that they would have done the same to her, had the situation been reversed.  It might have stunned, even revolted her, the taking of four human lives, had she still been Willow.  But Willow had long since left the building.  For that matter, Willow had left the fucking planet, and she wasn't coming back anytime soon.  

That is, until she saw Giles and Wesley fall.

The last shooter went down, dropping both Giles and Wesley with a final burst of gunfire as he fell.  Willow stared in horror, watching as both men collapsed to the ground, unmoving.  In a split moment, the apathy was gone, replaced by an odd confluence of horror and rage.  "No!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, immediately starting for the spot where both men lie.  She'd taken no more than a single step when she was jolted back to the reality of the drama unfolding behind, her attention drawn to a decidedly feminine scream from the other direction.  She turned back hesitantly, torn by her desire to attend to the injured/dead Watchers, but cognizant of Gile's desire to protect Dawn at all costs.  Giving one last fleeting glance toward Giles and Wesley, she tore off in the opposite direction.

For his part, Spike was already on the move, grasping a wildly thrashing Dawn under one arm as he bolted from the yard.  He churned his feet faster and faster, his preternatural speed propelling him quickly toward the street, even as a dark Chevy cargo van screeched to a halt at curbside.  

Behind Willow, a single figure stirred, his form still smoking from the close-proximity lightning strike, his clothes bloodstained from multiple flesh wounds.  The man rose awkwardly, limping off after the fleeing vampire in spite of his injuries, with no real hope of catching him.

Across the yard, the van's side-door slid open, revealing still more armed men.  Focused solely on Spike, Willow ignored the new threat.  Still running after the vampire, she thrust out her hand and uttered a single word, invoking a spell she had until now employed only against a certain deceased hell god.

"_Thicken_."

To Spike, the relatively short distance from the courtyard to the street seemed to be anything but.  Even with his preternatural speed, he was hindered significantly by the violently struggling sixteen year old tucked beneath his arm.  Only seconds before, it had seemed he was home free.  But there he was, just meters from the awaiting van, when something entirely unexpected happened.  The very air around him seemed to solidify, an unseen force retarding his forward progress.  The vampire churned his legs ever harder, but to little effect. His movements were a study in slow motion, every inch coming harder than the last.  He glanced frantically over his shoulder, seeing that the witch had nearly closed the distance, with the cursed Watcher not far behind.  He knew he wasn't going to make it. 

"Bloody Hell," he grumbled, hand darting into the pocket of his leather jacket as he spun around.  With the rampaging witch less than ten feet away and closing, he yanked the revolver from the coat, leveling it at the approaching Willow, squeezing off all six rounds into her chest.  The stream of bullets tore into Willow's upper torso, the force of the impacting rounds lifting her bodily into the air for a brief instant before gravity took hold, dropping her on her back on the dried-out lawn, where she remained, unmoving.  

Dawn watched in horror as Willow fell in her tracks, her white blouse riddled with bright red bloodstains.  "You motherfucker!" she screamed at the unrepentant vampire, struggling anew against his powerful grip.  "You son of a bitch!  You killed her!"

Spike only smiled, still looking back as the lone pursuer continued to limp toward him, presenting no real danger to the vampire.  "You know what they say, luv," he said turning back to Dawn, as if consoling the struggling girl.  "If you can't dazzle 'em with brilliance, riddle 'em with bullets."   With that, he flashed a shit-eating grin at the struggling Watcher, saluted sloppily, and then jumped into the awaiting van, cargo in hand.  

Directly behind them, a battered Rupert Giles threw himself to the ground, yards from the escaping van, as a hail of gunfire passed overhead, compliments of the front seat passenger.  He watched helplessly, fighting unconsciousness as the vehicle accelerated away from the curb, sped off down the road, turned a corner, and vanished from sight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Willy's Place 

He knelt down by the stilled body of the Slayer, reflexively checking the usual spots for any sign of a pulse.  Instinctively, he knew it was a wasted effort.  Even in death, her eyes were still open, pupils dilated, staring upward into oblivion, an odd mixture of surprise and relief etched on her face.  He'd always expected this day to come; it had just been a matter of time.  But it wasn't supposed to end like this, not at the hand of some human scum who more than likely had no grasp of the significance of what he'd done.  With that thought, and with a delicacy seldom seen inside these walls, Willy reached down, performing a final service for the girl as he gently closed Buffy's eyes.  

"See ya around, kid," he whispered to his sometime nemesis, though he doubted their paths would ever cross again, in this life or in the next.  Reaching into his pocket, he reluctantly pulled out a cell phone, dialing the number from memory.  Willy waited patiently through four, and then five rings before a familiar voice finally answered on the other end.

"Martinez," a man announced gruffly.

"Detective, it's Willy.  I need a favor."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Pacific Coast Highway**

**Outside Sunnydale**

The two aircraft hugged the nap of the earth, following the gently curving slopes of sand, passing just barely above the rapidly receding earth below.  They moved in unison, flying in staggered formation as they mimicked each others movements, one fully armed, the second less a single Starstreak air-to-air missile, bits and pieces of which now resided in the smoldering wreckage of the unmarked helicopter strewn about the ground a few clicks aft of the formation.  

Cresting the tip of a large dune, the flight climbed briefly before slowing to 80 knots, two sets of turbine-powered rotors whipping up an artificial sandstorm in the desert sands below.  Inside both aircraft, identical sets of fire-control radars had acquired a target of interest, though both sets of weapons-bay doors would remain closed, at least for the foreseeable future.  This was, after all, a rescue mission, despite what a recently deceased chopper pilot might have otherwise believed.  Of course, the plume of smoke rising into the air just a quarter mile away suggested that the nature of the mission was about to change, which in turn told both sets of pilots and co-pilots all they needed to know:  Namely, that they were too late.  

As the wreckage of the sport utility vehicle came into view on the port side, the trailing aircraft broke away smartly, banking sharply right before assuming a large oval patrol pattern, looking outward for any additional threats.  Simultaneously, the pilot of the lead chopper banked left, executing an impressive 80-knot snap-to-turn, maintaining his forward momentum as he slewed the helicopter's nose toward the wreckage of the Suburban, his co-pilot training the 20mm Gatling gun on the smoking skeleton below.  From their vantage point, the men in the leading chopper - designated Archangel-1 - could plainly see a figure moving about, just forward of the totaled vehicle.  The pilot slowed the aircraft, still side slipping, wondering whom, if anyone, could have survived such an attack, if the person was indeed a survivor.  Though he had no basis for his suspicion - other than the obvious - the pilot suspected the man was up to no good.

"Six," the pilot, known by his call sign 'Reaper', barked into the radio, "This is Archangel flight.  Be advised, Wildcard is down.  Repeat, Wildcard is down.   Confirm visual on one possible unfriendly.  Request authorization to investigate."

"Archangel, Six.  Confirm presence of unfriendly.  Request is denied.  Maintain holding pattern and secure area.  Additional units are en-route."

Archangel-1 swore beneath his breath, switching frequencies to talk to his wingman.  "Wildman, you copy that last transmission?"

"Roger that, Reaper," came his wingman's deflated response.  "Guess that we means we get to sit here holding our dicks in our hands.  Don't suppose you wanna go down and say hi to our friend anyway?"

"Let me ask mom" Reaper demurred, switching channels once more.  "Six," the lead pilot said into his helmet-mounted radio, "This is Archangel-1.  We're taking some small arms fire," he improvised.  "Request permission for weapons release."

"Archangel, Six.  Weapons release denied.  Maintain present position and await further orders.  Be advised, ground units are en-route to secure the area."

"Six, Archangel.  Repeat last transmission," he demurred.  "We're getting some interference here."

The tired voice of the radio operator came across clearly.  "You copied correctly, Archangel.  Weapons release is denied.  Repeat, weapons release is denied.  Maintain present position and wait for ground units.  Six out."

Reaper flipped back to the inter-aircraft frequency.  "Mom says we can't go out and play.  Guess she doesn't want us to get our hands dirty before dinner."

"Aw fuck, Reaper.  You heard Mom.. the bastard's an unfriendly.  I hate to say it, but I'm pretty sure I sense a 'weapons malfunction' coming on."

"Stow that shit, Wildman," warned Reaper.  "You remember what happened the last time you experienced a 'weapons malfunction?"

"The board of inquiry absolved me of any responsibility," Wildman replied defiantly.  "Besides, those damn tree huggers had it coming.  Wasn't my fault their shitty boat sank."  He hesitated for a moment, before conceding the point to his wingman.  "But I do see your point."

"Amen to that," Reaper sighed, his eyes drawn to a movement on the horizon.  "Hey Wildman, you see what I'm seeing?"

"Five-by-Five," came the immediate reply.  "Shooter and I got a visual on both dumb and dumber.  You don't suppose they're together?"

"Don't know," came the wary response.  "New arrival could be one of ours," he cautioned.  "You have any idea what color the good guys wear these days?"

"Green," came the expected reply, referring to the drab color of the flight suits they all wore, eliciting a knowing grin from all four aviators.  "Olive Green."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pacific Coast Highway 

**On the Ground Below**

With her last ounce of strength, the Slayer looked helplessly into the face of death, preparing to utter the words he'd been waiting to hear.

"I swear," Faith said, somehow finding her voice, and with it, an inexplicable measure of resolve.  "I swear to God that someday soon, someone just like me is gonna kick your sorry ass back to whatever fucking rock you crawled out from under."

The man found little amusement in Faith's last overt act of defiance.  "Someone just like you?  Not in this lifetime, Faith" he admonished the dying Slayer, who offered no response.  The individual standing behind him answered for her.

"Well," the voice allowed with an abundance of amusement, "maybe not _just _like her."

The black-clad figure leapt to his feet, belatedly whirling to face the unexpected newcomer.  Even with his preternatural speed, he was too late in his actions.  As he laid eyes on the speaker, the other man thrust out his hand, the blade grasped within impaling his chest, sanctified metal penetrating the man's unbeating heart, the tip of the sword jutting out his back.  

The man in black stared in abject shock, his eyes widening in recognition as he sunk to his knees, knowing even then that he was finished.  "Nemamiah," he hissed, grabbing futilely for the bloodstained blade.

"Sammael," the blue-jean clad man acknowledged with a wisp of a smile, plunging the sword even further into his adversary's chest.  "So good to see you again, my old friend."

Sammael responded with an inhuman roar, the blade tearing relentlessly into his hands as he tried desperately to retract it from his body.  "You think this is over?" he spat at his nemesis, decayed blood seeping from the corners of his mouth.  "You think you've won?  When He rises, you'll wish I'd killed you."

Nemamiah thumbed a recessed button on the sword's grip, four embedded spikes springing from the blade with a definitive click, their barbed tips pointing back toward the hilt.  "Give Nachash my regards," he replied evenly, jerking the blade back through Sammael's body, the barbed spikes eviscerating the demonic angel, tearing the black heart from his chest.

As the former angel fell dead at his feet, Nemamiah wiped the bloodied blade carefully on the man's black cloak, retracting the spikes in the process.  He took a step toward the stilled body of the Slayer, crushing the atrophied heart of his vanquished foe underfoot.  Kneeling down, he briefly laid his hands upon the girl's forehead, whispering a silent prayer.  He then stood, looking upward at the curious flying machines hovering overhead.  

And he smiled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End chapter 20.  I know this is starting to sound redundant, but I'm sorry this took so long to post.   This story has kind of taken on a life of its own, and I've been forced to rewrite much of what I've already written.  Thanks to all of you with the patience to stick with me; I hope the story lives up to your expectations.  If not, let me know.  Remember, feedback is my friend, and yours.  The more I get, the more motivated I'll be to write (hey, it works in theory).  

Regards,

Rabid Squirrel


	21. Casus Belli: Or How I learned to Stop W...

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Summary:_ Alternate version of season 7.  The real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the entire human race. 

_Disclaime__r:_ You know the drill.  I own nothing.  I've just misappropriated the BTVS crew for a little spin through my demented little world.

_Spoilers__:_ (BTVS) Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out, rewrite, or outright ignore certain unsavory aspects.   Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3.

_Rating:_R, for violence, strong language, and the wanton abuse of creative license.

_Feedback:_  Constructive criticism, comments, and suggestions are greatly appreciated.  Flames will be used to burn couches.  Couches?  Yes, you read correctly, I said couches.  Don't ask.  You wouldn't understand anyway. 

_Notes_:   Just wanted to clear up a few things.  Number one, I have no idea how long this story will be, though I can say with a high degree of certainty that we're past the halfway point.  Also, in the last chapter, I erroneously referred to the Fallen Angel with Faith as being dressed in black.  As an astute reviewer pointed out, he should have been dressed in white.  My bad.  Not the first mistake I've made, and damned sure not the last I'll make.  And to the reader who asked about there being 3 Slayers:  Yes, Dawn is now a Slayer…sort of.  Confused?  Join the club.  Even I don't understand what goes on in that head of mine, which, in all honesty, is probably for the best.

_Dedication_:  To the MellonBallers, heir apparent to the Hell's Angels and unholy scourge of the [not so] mean streets of Dayton, Ohio.  Gentlemen:  The sidewalks are yours.

Words of Wisdom_:  __Never take life too seriously. Nobody gets out alive anyway _

**Chapter 21:  "Casus Belli:  Or How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Apocalypse"**

Sunnydale High School 

There were those things in life you never really wanted to experience firsthand:  The much maligned 3 a.m. visit from the police officer, complete with the standard 'I'm afraid there's been an accident'_; _your doctor rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he informed you, albeit casually, that he'd 'found something interesting_'_ on your x-ray; your lawyer calling to inform you that you'd been bequeathed a sizable inheritance, and that, by the way, 'your parents had a little accident_."_ 

And then of course, there were the little things, like finding out that the woman you just might sort of be in like with wasn't _exactly_ 100% Grade A, made in the USA, Homo Sapien.  

In retrospect, it shouldn't have come as that much of a shock.  Xander had always entertained his own closely held theories regarding the Slayer's dubious origin.  That, coupled with Buffy's heartfelt admission earlier that day, and in light of the fact that she had cheated death on no fewer than two occasions, presented a compelling argument against Buffy's assumed humanity.  Of course, if there was one thing that transcended the very notion of rational thought – at least on Xander's part – it was his own unrelenting obstinacy, an outright refusal to accept as truth anything that conflicted with his preconceived notions of how his world could, and ultimately should, be. 

Despite his better suspicions, suspicions which – by virtue of their own basis – only confirmed Danyael's claim, Xander managed to maintain a façade of unflappability.     He nodded dutifully, a disingenuous smile creeping stealthily onto his face.  "Oh…I get it," he deadpanned.  "It's like humor, but without the funny."

Danyael barely succeeded in biting off a laugh. "Good for you kid.  They say if you can laugh about it, then you're not beaten."

Eying the other man hesitantly, Xander was overcome with a sudden urge to state the obvious.  "Have I told you lately that I don't like you very much?"

"Nobody likes me very much," Danyael acknowledged with an air of indifference. "But for what it's worth, your girlfriend is partially human."

"You're not really helping matters.  And for the record, she's not my girlfriend."

"Whatever.  The point is, I'm sorry.  I'm not used to dealing with people."

"No kidding?  I hadn't noticed."

"I did say I was sorry," Danyael reminded him, almost managing to sound hurt. 

 Xander wasn't buying it.  "And you sounded so damn sincere."

 "Look, I really am sorry you had to find out this way, but trust me, better you hear it now than later."

"Trust you?" Xander asked incredulously.  "Now there's an interesting concept."

"Cynical much?"

"What can I say?  My mother taught me never to run with scissors, never to ask a woman her weight, and to never trust anyone who's been kicked out of heaven.  She's kind of funny that way."

"She sounds overprotective."

"Only when she's sober," Xander conceded.  "And that ain't often."

"That's touching," Danyael remarked sarcastically.  "You're breaking my heart, kid…really."

"And you're trying what's left of my patience," Xander countered.  "So why don't we skip the chitchat and get to the point already."

Danyael shrugged.  "Shoot."

_Don't tempt me, _Xander thought, managing not to express the sentiment aloud.  "Why don't you start by telling me what the hell Buffy is…. if she isn't human."

"I could do that," Danyael hedged.  "But just between you and me, it's a little complicated."

"Complicated?  I'm standing here talking to an Fallen Angel about an apparently not-quite-human Vampire Slayer who, word has it, is about to take the big dirt nap for the third time, all while trying to prevent your old frat buddies from unleashing yet another apocalypse on our not-so quiet little Hellmouth.  Call me crazy, but I'd say we passed complicated about three exits back."

Danyael threw him a cockeyed look, his amusement evident.  "I never figured you for a drama queen."

"And I'm having a difficult time believing there's anything the slightest fucking bit angelic about you, so I guess that makes us even."

"Whistler warned me you'd be a pain in the ass," the former angel remarked snidely.

Xander took the insult in stride.  "He told me you'd be an obstinate, self-righteous prick."

"Looks like he was right on both counts," Danyael weighed in.

The meaning inherent in Danyael's admission did not escape Xander.  "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Doesn't look promising," Danyael conceded.

"And why exactly is that?"

"I doubt you'd understand."

"Try anyway…" Xander suggested impatiently, even as his cell phone began ringing.  He ignored the buzzing annoyance, instead gazing expectantly at Danyael, waiting for an answer.

"You going to answer that?" the angel demurred, gesturing to the offending cell phone.

"It can wait."

"If you say so…" the other man mumbled.

Xander mumbled a curse under his breath, glancing in progression at his phone, then Danyael, and back to the phone, finally snatching the plastic unit from his belt clip.  "Harris."

He lapsed into silence for a moment, listening intently to the voice on the other end before responding, and even then, haltingly.  "How do you…. are you sure…. are they…?"   He mumbled an insincere "thank you" as he thumbed the end button, glancing up at Danyael. 

"I've gotta go."

Danyael nodded knowingly.  "Thought as much."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Xander asked accusatorily, his expression reflecting his disbelief.

"I had what you might call an epiphany," Danyael confessed, "wasn't exactly forthcoming with the details."

"You could have…." Xander began, then stopped, thinking better of it.  "Forget it," he muttered, turning his back to Danyael and taking a few steps toward the stairway exit.

"Hey, Xander," Danyael called out after him.  "You serious?  You really want to know?"

Xander stopped in mid-stride.  "I wouldn't have asked otherwise."

"You realize it's not really my place to tell you?"

Xander had expected as much.  He turned slowly to face Danyael.  "Would you have told me if it was?" 

"Probably not."

"Then I guess there's not much left to say, is there?"

Danyael cocked his head, gazing prophetically at the crevice below.  "Guess not."

Xander let it go at that, making for the stairs once more.  From behind him the angel spoke up again.  "Xander?"

Xander paused momentarily, without turning to face him.  "What?"

"Don't worry about your friends.  They're in good hands."

Xander resumed walking, without so much as another glance at the man.  "Sure they are," he mumbled, without much in the way of conviction.

 "You know kid," Danyael directed at Xander's retreating form, "for someone so young, you're pretty damn cynical."

"And for someone who's supposed to be one of the good guys, " came Xander's bitter response, "you're doing a pretty damn good job of playing both sides."  On that note, the basement door slammed shut behind him, effectively ending the conversation.

Danyael listened for a moment to the sound of Xander's retreating footsteps, then, assured he was basically alone in the basement, pulled out his own wireless phone, dialing a Los Angeles number from memory.  He was not the least bit surprised when he heard a corresponding ring not twenty feet behind him.

"I see your people skills still haven't improved much," admonished a familiar voice, coming from somewhere immediately behind the fallen angel. 

"Neither has your sense of style, Whistler," Danyael retorted, thumbing the end button on his phone, without hazarding a glance behind him.  "But do I hold that against you?"

The balance demon emerged from the shadows, shaking his head in mock disappointment.  "I leave you alone for a few days, and look what happens."

"Relax Whistler," Danyael reasoned.  "It's not like all Hell's broken loose.  Well, not yet, anyway."

"At least we have that to look forward to," the balance demon added, before turning serious.  He jerked his head in the direction of the stairs.  "You think he'll play ball?"

"He won't interfere," Danyael averred with a dismissive shrug.  "And even if he wanted to, it's too late now to matter."

Whistler accepted that at face value.  "She's dead then?" he asked, surprised by the twinge of sadness in his own voice.

Danyael nodded.  "As of a few minutes ago, Ms. Summers has joined the ranks of the living impaired."

"I take it you didn't tell him?"

Danyael shook his head.  "The kid has plenty to deal with as it is.  He'll find out soon enough."

"I don't envy him that," Whistler admitted, exhibiting a rare flash of empathy.

"He has bigger concerns at present.  We all do."

"Amen to that," Whistler conceded.  "But then, I believe you have somewhere to be."

"She's not going anywhere," Danyael hedged. 

"She needs to be," Whistler admonished. "Time's not exactly on our side."

Danyael considered that.  "As much as it pains me to admit it, you do have a point.  Think maybe you could give me lift?"

"Can't you just do that…you know, that thing you do?" Whistler asked with a confused frown.

"And pass up a ride in that wonderful piece of shit you call a car?"

"It's not a piece of shit," the offended balance demon insisted, "it's a classic."

"It's a classic piece of shit," Danyael remarked with an expansive grin.  "But don't feel bad.  I don't even have a piece of shit to call my own.  I have to bum rides in yours."

Whistler eyed his counterpart with thinly veiled disdain. "Has anybody ever told you that you're a real prick?"

"You're the second one today," Danyael admitted matter-of-factly.

"And it's still early," Whistler observed optimistically.  "Come on, I'll drop you off at the church.  Maybe it'll do you some good."

"Good idea.  I'll be sure to say a prayer for you."

**Giles' House**

That same time 

In the six years or so since Rupert Giles had taken up residence in this once quiet neighborhood, his neighbors had learned four things about the man.  One, he was the High School librarian, or at least had been until the school had blown up under decidedly suspicious circumstances.  Two, he had a particular – some might say obsessive – affinity for tweed, even for an Englishman.  Three, he spent an unseemly amount of time hanging around younger people, especially a certain twentyish blonde woman, whose relationship with the aforementioned Mr. Giles was the subject of much sordid speculation.  But the most important thing they'd learned about their neighbor was that being in close proximity to the man tended to have a detrimental effect on one's health.  The current situation across the street did little to dispel that belief.

For that reason, the onlookers gathered outside the yellow police cordon were relatively few in number, consisting mostly of teenagers and assorted neighborhood ne'er-do-wells whose collective curiosity far exceeded their common sense.  As a group they gazed in rapt fascination at the assembled fleet of police cruisers and ambulances, speculating amongst themselves about what had happened no more than 100 feet from where they now stood. 

Within the police cordon, officers of the Sunnydale Police Department milled about, marking the myriad locations of expended ammunition with small yellow flags before collecting the spent shells in small evidence baggies.  Police photographers stalked the courtyard, snapping photographs of the crime scene, preserving the evidence for posterity.  The officer in charge supervised them all, overseeing the policing of the crime scene as he leaned against the courtyard wall, while a half-dozen EMS technicians stood in small clusters talking amongst themselves, their services largely unneeded, despite initial signs to the contrary. 

Inside the house, an entirely different scene was unfolding, as the entire SPD Criminal Investigation Division – all three of them – tried valiantly to piece together exactly what had lead up to the events of that afternoon.  Suffice it to say they were not meeting with much success.

Detective Vincent (nee Vicente) Martinez studied the face of the man seated in the couch before him, a man who, despite all physical evidence to the contrary, was surprisingly not in need of any immediate medical attention.  The detective cleared his throat audibly, glancing haplessly at his colleague standing nearby as both braced for yet another round of increasingly fruitless questioning.  He turned back to the man on the couch.  "Let's try this one more time, Mr. Giles.  And this time, let's try the truth."

Rupert Giles sighed impatiently, rapidly tiring of this dance, once again reminded why he'd never opted to have children.  "I'm afraid can't tell you anything more than I already have, _leftenant_."

"So that's it?  You're sticking by your story?" Martinez asked.  "Just another drive-by shooting in this fair yet inexplicably crime-ridden city of ours?"

Giles nodded in agreement.  "That rather sums it up, I'm afraid."

"Getting to the point where you're not even safe in your own backyard," the second detective remarked pointedly, a hint of sarcasm evident in his voice.

Giles shrugged.  "I have been meaning to form a neighborhood watch group."

"A neighborhood watch group, huh?  I bet you'd make a pretty effective neighborhood _watcher_," Martinez observed _sotto voce_, enjoying the brief look of alarm on the otherwise stoic Englishman's face.  He smiled benignly at the Watcher, his gaze lingering just long enough to let Giles know that he knew, but not long enough to be interpreted as threatening.   Breaking eye contact, he turned to his colleague.  "Detective Pierce, would you please give Mr. Giles and I a few moments?" 

Pierce nodded, cognizant of the informal dealings between the two men.  "I'll run the tags on the van," he offered, knowing full well he'd find nothing, but obligated to do so nonetheless.  "I'll let you know if anything turns up."  With a sympathetic glance at Martinez, he left the room.

When the other man had gone, Martinez turned back to Giles, looking the older man in the eyes.  "All right, Mr. Giles.  I'm gonna be straight with you, and I hope you'll grant me the same consideration."  He paused a moment, waiting for some sort of indication.  At Gile's reluctant nod, he continued. 

"I've always made a conscious effort to grant your group considerable leeway, out of respect for your, shall we say, extracurricular activities."  He caught Gile's eye, holding his gaze for a long moment to drive home the point, lest there be any confusion about the extent of his knowledge regarding the Slayer and her friends.  "I am also aware that this department has not always acted in the best interests of those it is sworn to protect.  However, I think we can both agree that the latter has changed for the better, given the former mayor's…. untimely demise."  Giles nodded perceptibly, acknowledging the fortuitous change in city administrations.  "However," the detective continued, "our tacit agreement notwithstanding, I'm getting more than a little tired of having smoke blown up my ass on a daily basis.  Are we on the same page, Mr. Giles?"

Giles nodded again, not bothering to wait for the question he knew was coming.  "Where would you like me to begin?"

Martinez smiled feebly, taking a measure of accomplishment in the apparent victory, however small it might be.  He produced a manila folder, tossing it on the coffee table in front of Giles, where it fell open, spilling several police photographs across the glass surface.  "For starters, you might tell me what you know about this man."

Giles picked up one of the macabre photos, briefly perusing the picture of an obviously deceased man, a man whom he did not recognize.  "I've never seen him before," he answered honestly.  "Who is he?"

Martinez retrieved the file, flipping to a document faxed from Washington only hours earlier.  "According to the State Department, he's a Bulgarian national, goes by the name of Kovacs.  Or at least, he did until yesterday."

Giles eyed the detective warily, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  "And what, pray tell, does this have to do with me?"

"It seems that our friend Mr. Kovacs was a former agent of the Bulgarian secret police, the _Dirzhavna Sugurnost, _I believe it was.  Anyway, the boys at Quantico – the FBI for you civilian types – believe he was a stringer…a contract killer for hire.  Apparently Mr. Kovacs used to do a lot of black-bag operations for the KGB back in the good old, bad old days."

"You didn't answer my question," Giles pointed out, though he could see where this was going.

"I was getting to that.  As I was about to say, Kovacs entered the country three days ago… crossed over illegally from Mexico under an assumed identity.  I don't know exactly what he was up to or whom he was working for, but he turned up dead yesterday on the outskirts of town, near the new industrial park.  He was shot twice in the back at close range, stripped of identification, and dumped in plain view just off the water treatment plant access road.  Aside from an empty wallet and the murder weapon, we found only one item on his person… a rather extensive dossier on one Rupert Giles."

Had the detective not known any better, Gile's reaction might have surprised him.  But the fact that the Englishman didn't even blink at the disturbing news came as no great surprise to him, given what he knew of Mr. Giles's exploits.  "Was that an accusation?" Giles asked evenly.

Martinez smiled benignly.  "You're many things, Mr. Giles, but you're no murderer.  Mr. Kovacs is another story entirely."

"Who do you think killed this man, if not me?"

The detective leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands thoughtfully under his chin.  "I was hoping you could shed some light on that."

"I have no earthly idea," Giles insisted, again truthfully.  "I presume you suspect it had something to do with what transpired here today?"

"You tell me, Mr. Giles.  Did it?"

The watcher leaned back in the couch, pondering how best to answer a question that had no correct answer.  "If I had to guess, I would venture to say yes…. and no."

Martinez didn't follow.  "Come again?"

Taking a deep breath, Giles prepared to launch into an explanation.  "As you no doubt suspect, what happened today was more than a simple drive-by shooting."

Martinez arched an eyebrow.  "No shit."

Giles continued, unperturbed.  "The men who attacked us were here for a particular reason…. a specific purpose.  Killing us was not high on their agenda."

"I've got a yard full of expended 9mm that says otherwise."

The Watcher shook his head.  "I said killing us wasn't high on their agenda; I never said they lacked the desire to do so."

"And yet here you are, no worse for wear.  You mind telling me how you pulled that one off, or should I direct the question to Miss Rosenberg?"

"Beg your pardon?"

Martinez smiled broadly.  "Let's just say I have a friend at Sunnydale Memorial who keeps me apprised of the more…unusual goings on in the emergency room."   He paused, noting the look of trepidation on Giles' face.  "Consequently," he continued, "a few months back this friend shared with me a certain surveillance video featuring our very own Willow Rosenberg."

"You don't say?"

"At the risk of sounding like a dirty old man, Miss Rosenberg's a very photogenic young woman, despite the varicose veins and the Goth getup she happened to be sporting at the time."

Giles felt the urge to say something; he just wasn't sure what.  "I can assure you there's a logical explanation for anything…inexplicable you might have seen."

"Rosenberg's a witch?"

That caught the Watcher off guard.  "When you put it that way, it doesn't sound quite so logical," he conceded.

"And today?"

"Pretty much the same," Giles admitted.

"Rosenberg healed you?"

"What gave it away _leftenant_?  The massive bloodstains?  Or perhaps the bullet holes decorating my pant leg?"

Martinez ignored the last remark.  "And the bodies out back?"

Giles played stupid.  "What of them?"

"Who are they, and what happened to them?"

Giles thought about it for a second, using the time to stretch his cramped frame.  "Well, detective, to answer your first question, I can't rightly say.  However, if I were so inclined to speculate, I might infer they were in some way associated with Wolfram & Hart."

"Wolfram & Hart?  The law firm?"

"It's only speculation, of course."

"Of course.  We all know how ruthless lawyers can be.  And as to my second question?"

Giles smiled weakly.  "I believe the appropriate term is immolated."

"More of Ms. Rosenberg's handiwork, I presume?"

"Let's just call it an act of God and leave it at that."

Martinez rolled his eyes.  "We seem to have an abundance of those where you're concerned."

"God looks out for fools and children," Giles reasoned.  "And on occasion, middle-aged British expatriates."

"But not rifle-toting mercenaries," Martinez added, before reverting back to the issue at hand.  "Tell me something Mr. Giles.  You said those men were here for a specific purpose, but that they weren't here to kill you.  Supposing that's true, what was their motive?"

"You're a smart boy, _leftenant_.  You tell me."

"They were looking for something…for someone?" the detective surmised aloud.  "But they didn't kill…" His voice trailed off as realization sunk in.  Martinez shook his head in amazement, muttering a Spanish invective beneath his breath.  "You mean to tell me this was a goddamned attempted kidnapping?  _Jesu Cristo!  _Why the hell didn't you say anything?"

Giles eyed the man studiously.  "I trust you, Detective Martinez.  I cannot say the same of your men."

Martinez opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it.  "Who was it?" he asked, a little too loudly, before lowering her voice.  "Were they…you know…?"

"They were human," Giles imparted, "for the most part.  There was a vampire among them."

"Anyone I know?"

"Perhaps.  The demon in question goes by the name of Spike."

"You mean Hostile Seven…." Martinez blurted out, then checked himself.  "I mean, uh, William the Bloody."

"I see you're familiar with the Initiative," Giles remarked coolly.  "Why am I not surprised?"

"It'd be best if you forget hearing that," Martinez cautioned, his eyes darting back and forth conspiratorially, a look of genuine anguish on his face.  "For both our sakes."

"I take it there's a new player in town," Giles surmised quietly.

"You might say that," Martinez conceded, pulling a pen from his pocket and scribbling something on the manila folder, which he held up for Giles' benefit.  "And he doesn't play well with others." 

"I see," Giles responded, not the least bit surprised by the three letters the detective had written_.  _"I venture to say that in these uncertain times one cannot be too careful."

"Without a doubt," Martinez agreed.  "Anyway, these men, these kidnappers.  Who was it they were looking for?  Was it Summers?"

"Yes…it was Summers." Giles confessed, "but not the one you're thinking of."

The detective's eyes widened with shock.  "Dawn?  I assumed she wasn't here."

Giles nodded soberly.  "She isn't.  They took her."

SHS Parking Lot 

It's been said that death has a plan for everyone, that when your time is up, your time is up, and there ain't jack squat you can do about it.  Fortunately for Xander Harris, that wasn't exactly true, at least not in the strictest sense of the word.

Strangely enough, it wasn't the Slayer that saved his life.  It wasn't fate, or good luck, or even chance, either.  What saved Xander, in a manner of speaking, was good old-fashioned capitalism – that, and an extremely persuasive car salesman named Steve.

When Xander hit the remote ignition button on his aftermarket key fob, a simple radio signal was transmitted to a receiver slaved to the truck's onboard computer, which was in turn linked to the ignition.  As the vehicle's engine turned over, a similar, if more ominous signal was relayed to a detonator concealed within the truck, surreptitiously placed only minutes before by a heretofore-trusted member of Xander's crew.  The detonator, in turn, catalyzed a somewhat more spectacular, if less desirable ignition, setting off a small but potent Composition-4 charge positioned strategically near the fuel tank. 

The first explosion easily lifted the truck off the ground, blowing out the tinted windows in an impressive display of pyrotechnics.  It was followed less than a second later by another, more powerful explosion, this one tearing the metal frame asunder, completing the destruction of what Xander had already begun referring to as "his baby".  

The nominal owner, meanwhile, fared somewhat better than his beloved toy.  The initial blast left Xander largely unscathed, aside from a few minor cuts and scrapes sustained from the flying glass.  The subsequent explosion, replete with shrapnel and ensuing shockwave, sent Xander reeling, shredding his favorite flannel shirt as well as the skin beneath.  He hit the ground ten feet from where he'd left it, rolling to a stop on the cement promenade directly outside the front entrance to the school.  Dazed and bloodied, he lifted his head with considerable effort, staring in mute shock at the remains of his truck, even as a single smoldering tire rolled lazily by.  Rapidly losing consciousness, Xander heard footsteps approaching from behind, and wondered fleetingly whether they belonged to his would be murderers.  He slowly turned his head, struggling to focus on the two figures running toward him, his vision already blurring.  As the world faded to black, he was heard to mutter:

"Damn…only 48 payments left."

End Chapter 21.  Not to beat a dead horse, but I apologize once more for the delay in posting.  My old laptop finally gave up the ghost (adios Compaq), and my new Dell fell victim to the Sasser worm.  Needless to say, my writing has been especially sparse of late.  Anyway, as always, feedback is not only appreciated, but outright craved.  You know the drill.

Regards,

Rabid Squirrel


	22. Syzygy

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Summary:_ Alternate version of season 7. The real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the entire human race.

_Disclaime__r:_ For the record, I don't own BTVS. Feel free to sue anyway. I crave the attention.

_Spoilers_ (BTVS) Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out, rewrite, or outright ignore certain unsavory aspects. Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3.

_Rating:_R, for violence, strong language, and the wanton abuse of creative license.

_Feedback:_ It's called sharing kids. Learn it; live it; love it.

_Notes_: Contrary to popular belief, I have not dropped this story. I've just been more apathetic than usual the past several months. Blame the evil little gremlin on my shoulder. He's a devious, conniving bastard, and he's only getting stronger. Pray for me.

_Dedication_: To all fanfic writers – even those wacky B/S shippers – who labor to keep BTVS alive, if only in the realm of cyberspace.

Words of Wisdom"Evil will always triumph, because good is…. dumb." – Dark Helmet, _Spaceballs_

**Chapter 22: "Syzygy"**

**500 feet above Sunnydale**

No plan survives first contact with the enemy.

It was a lesson easily enough learned, and even easier forgotten. In the Army it was universal truth, part and parcel of the doctrine drilled into the minds of countless generations of warriors, including two hapless chopper pilots who even now wandered how the hell the mission had gone to shit before there very eyes.

Of course, their problem wasn't so much that the plan hadn't survived first contact with the enemy, but that it hadn't survived first contact with…. well, with anybody. But then, in all fairness, it wasn't as if the mission had started out all that well in the first place. Despite the fact they were on ready alert when the orders had come down, they'd arrived on station too late to be of any real help to those who'd needed it most. That part had hurt. It always did. But if nothing else, at the very least they'd managed to administer a modicum of whoopass on the bad guys, whomever the hell they might of been. And it wasn't like this was the first time either of them had seen the situation go south. That was also part of the lesson.

In military parlance it was known as IMAO – Improvise, Modify, Adapt, and Overcome. Its applicability was premised on the former part of the doctrine, itself a corollary to Murphy's first, and most famous law. When the shit hit the fan, this man's army was trained to improvise, and to some degree, the two men had done just that, even if they weren't entirely aware they had done so.

To be honest, the improvising part really hadn't been of their own device. When a man jumps fifty feet into the air, lands on the canopy of your chopper, and motions you to land with a very large and very bloodstained sword, your first tendency – aside from emptying your bladder – is to do what he says, training be damned. In that same vein, modifying the mission plan had come just as naturally, which basically came down to doing whatever the scary guy said. It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

And so it was for precisely that reason that both pilots found themselves deviating from their flight plan, cruising over downtown Sunnydale, sans gunners, transporting a young, badly injured (dead?) girl and one rather taciturn swordsman, destination unknown. From his vantage point in the elevated rear pilot's seat of the lead chopper, Archangel surveyed the suburban neighborhood below, watching silently as the windswept sands of the pseudo-desert slipped seamlessly into the horizon, and with them, he couldn't help but suspect, any prospect for further career advancement.

_Army of One, my ass_.

Buffy Summers was no stranger to death. In life it had been her one constant companion, an unbidden specter dogging her every move until her time too had come. She knew death, knew it as intimately as she'd known any lover, if less pleasurably so. It was her gift, her curse, and her burden to bear. She'd dealt it by her own hand, had surrendered friends and loved ones to its embrace, and ultimately, had succumbed herself to its inevitability. And yet she didn't fear death. Nor did she seek it out. She merely accepted it for what it was, and let it go at that.

Of course, she didn't remember it being _quite _like this.

The first sign that this wasn't your run-of-the-mill afterlife was more intangible than anything else. It just felt different, somehow felt wrong. On that horrible day when she'd hurled herself into the portal, everything had been so clear. There was no pain, no doubt, and no regret. Only the certainty that things were as they ought to be, and that while that did little to mitigate the fact that she was dead, it did make things a bit easier to swallow. This was different. But then, that was Heaven, and this was…well, as far as she could tell, this was the old high school library, which came as quite a shock, seeing as how she vividly recalled giving it a proper Hellmouth sendoff more than three years ago.

All irony aside, however, it came as no great surprise when she found herself seated in a heavy, yet strangely comfortable wooden chair, positioned at the head of a familiar oak table. "Great," Buffy bemoaned, surveying the recognizable, yet altogether eerie surroundings, "high school. That settles it…. I'm officially in hell."

She had not been anticipating a response.

"I should hope not," enjoined a familiar voice, floating down from somewhere in the stacks above. The recently departed Slayer spun her seat around, eyes automatically locking on a most unbelievable sight. Overcome with emotion, Buffy opened her mouth to speak, but managed to choke out only a monosyllabic response.

"Mom?"

**Abandoned Warehouse**

**Sunnydale Industrial Park**

Elsewhere, things weren't exactly progressing according to plan either.

In hindsight, the "snatch-and-grab" portion of the plan had gone off reasonably well, if a fifty percent casualty rate could be considered as such. But then, the men had known the risks, and in the ultimate scheme of things, their loss didn't amount to much in anyone's estimation. Besides, Spike rationalized, he'd planned on eating the survivors anyway, so what difference did it really make if the witch got to them first?

Of course, that part was supposed to be difficult; getting the package back to the warehouse wasn't. But in the grand tradition of unanticipated consequences, Spike, along with two unconscious mercenaries and the whole of Wolfram & Hart had overlooked one minor detail: Namely, that the death of one Slayer – let alone two – tended to trigger the calling of another. Assuming the other parts of the scheme had gone off according to plan, and subsequently that both Buffy and Faith had been removed from the picture, then logic stipulated that the next Slayer had been called. That eventuality was reinforced by the existence of a very large, very nasty bruise covering a significant portion of Spike's jaw, which – one might have observed – appeared to have been broken. And if that wasn't proof enough, then the broken-off two-by-four protruding from the vampire's chest pretty much confirmed it.

Ignoring the not inconsiderable pain, Spike afforded the dazed – and heavily chained – Slayer a rare show of respect, even has he grasped the offending broomstick firmly in his left hand. "Gotta hand it to you, Niblet," he conceded, almost managing to sound magnanimous as he jerked the wooden board from his body in one fluid motion, conspicuously unperturbed by the ensuing fountain of blood spurting from his gaping chest wound. "I'm impressed. Bloody friggin' impressed. Caught the Big Bad off guard you did. But then, I've always known there was something special 'bout you." He paused, flashing the prostrate Slayer an exaggerated, toothy grin, cigarette butt dangling precariously between his thin, pale lips. "Course, what with you bein' all Slayery all the sudden, figure that doesn't bode too well for big 'sis, now does it?"

At his feet, Dawn stirred groggily, instinctually trying to stand, but finding her arms and legs unwilling to cooperate, a lingering effect of her all-too-recent Tazing. Stymied in her attempts, she settled into an awkward crouch, gazing upwardly at her captor. She, of course, knew implicitly what her newfound capabilities suggested, even if she hadn't yet had time to rationally process the information. But then, the possibility of Buffy dying wasn't exactly uncharted territory, even at such an inopportune time. However, given her present predicament, she couldn't afford to dwell on that eventuality.

Fighting through the dizziness and nausea, she steadfastly held Spike's gaze, her eyes betraying little of the anger and panic simultaneously welling up within her. "You know what they say about assumptions," she offered defiantly.

"Quite the little optimist, aren't we" Spike observed dryly. "No worry. We'll just see if we can't beat that out of you."

"Give it your best shot," Dawn countered, her voice growing stronger, bravely maintaining her composure, despite the certainty of what was to come. "But between you and me, I don't think you've got what it takes to get the job done."

"Big sis never complained," Spike retorted smugly.

Dawn wasn't about to leave it at that. "If you say so," she conceded flippantly, flexing her arms to gauge the strength of her restraints. "But then, you aren't the first vampire to make that claim."

That little reminder didn't sit too well with Spike. "Say his name and I'll rip out your bleedin' throat," he threatened, not without a degree of implied legitimacy.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Dawn apologized, albeit disingenuously, her voice rife with undisguised sarcasm. "Guess that's kind of a sore spot for you, always having to settle for your sire's leftovers." She batted her eyelashes coquettishly. "Tell me, what's it like being Angel's bitch?"

Given his proclivity for unrestrained violence, Spike's response had not been unanticipated – just badly underestimated. With startling speed, the platinum-blonde demon lunged forward, grabbing the defenseless Slayer by the neck. Snatching the girl bodily from the ground, he yanked her upward as far as her restraints permitted, then brutally slammed her slender frame into the wall behind, leaving an indelible impression on the cinder block construction. Ignoring the shooting pain in her back and arms, Dawn instinctively raised her hands, trying – with little success – to shield her face from the brunt of the blows she knew were forthcoming. In that regard, she would not be disappointed.

The sickening crunch of cartilage announced the full onslaught of Spike's fury, and with it, a level of pain to which Dawn was both wholly unaccustomed and ill prepared. Her nose shattered, the alkaline taste of blood permeated Dawn's taste buds, even as the savage blows continued to rain down, one after another in rapid succession. For her part, Dawn could do little but literally turn the other cheek, accomplishing nothing save the even distribution of facial bruises to come. To make matters worse – assuming that were at all possible – mere bruising and bloodletting were proving wholly insufficient to sate Spike's bloodlust, as evidenced by the increasing savagery of his attacks. Through bruised and swollen eyes, Dawn Summers watched captively as her one-time idol endeavored to beat her to death. With each bone-crunching strike, by each broken rib and every angry contusion, the newborn Slayer felt her purchase on reality slipping a little further from her grasp.

And then, at the precise – yet not at all clichéd – moment when all seemed lost, when Dawn had all but reached the proverbial point of no return, salvation appeared in the unlikeliest of forms.

Enter Lilah Morgan - savior in six-inch stilettos.

**Giles' House**

Martinez stared silently at the Englishman, mentally attempting to piece together the events of the day. What he knew didn't amount to a hell of a lot. It consisted mostly of what were euphemistically referred to as "known-knowns" - those things he was sure that he knew - as well as "known-unknowns", things he knew for certain that he didn't know. Martinez knew that some serious shit was going down in Los Angeles; he was also aware that recent events a bit closer to home suggested that whatever was happening in L.A. was only a precursor for the main attraction, as evidenced by the rumors flying around the department, rumors reinforced by the undeniable presence of some rather serious gentleman in dark suits driving government fleet sedans. He knew also that someone had intended to kill Mr. Giles, along with the Englishman's coterie of demon hunters, witches, and general contractors. Courtesy of Mr. Giles, he also now knew that an extremely influential, albeit ethically challenged, law firm was somehow knee-deep in the middle of all this, having allegedly abetted in the kidnapping of a teenage girl, a girl who even now was the subject of a coordinated manhunt by the SPD, Sunnydale County Sheriffs Department, and California Highway Patrol. And then, of course, there was the reputed death of Buffy Summers; a bit of bad news the good detective had not yet bothered to share with Mr. Giles, pending official verification, as well as his ability to summon the courage to do so. What he didn't know, what he didn't yet have, was the link that tied these events together. He had only an endless list of questions, and very few answers to go with them: _What the hell is going on here? Why would a Los Angeles Law firm be mixed-up in kidnapping? And if they were, why the girl…why take Summers? How did she figure into whatever was going down? What made her special? _And lastly, and most importantly, _why the hell didn't I accept that offer from the FBI when I had the chance? _

Giles, for his part, knew exactly what was going through the detective's mind, save the bit about the FBI, and the death of the girl he loved as one would a daughter. He had no way of knowing either. "I suppose I owe you a slightly better explanation," he conceded at last.

Martinez nodded. "I suppose you do," he acknowledged hesitantly. "Though to be honest, I'm not sure I want to hear it."

"No one ever does," Giles commiserated. "Unfortunately, this is one situation we cannot afford to ignore, not where Dawn is concerned."

"They're going to kill her," Martinez stated flately. "That much I get. What I don't know is why."

"They need her," the Watcher continued, his voice assuming an increasingly ominous tone. "They took her because of what she is…what she can do. They intend to use her, exploit what's inside of her to achieve their ends. And if they are successful, she will die." Giles removed his glasses, gazing intently at the detective. "Rest assured she would not be the only one."

"It's Buffy," Martinez deduced, brainstorming aloud. "This has something to do with Dawn's sister being the Slayer, doesn't it?"

"_A_ Slayer," Giles corrected, alluding to the existence of not one, but now three Slayers, "And yes, it does have something to do with that, though it is quite a bit more complicated than it might at first seem."

Martinez nodded, though he wasn't quite sure what he was agreeing with. "So what is she then? A witch? Another Slayer? Something else entirely?"

"She is, as you've surmised, a Slayer. She is also much more than that."

"And what exactly would that be," the detective asked patiently.

Giles eyed the other man warily. "I'm going to ask that you do try keep an open mind."

Martinez shook is head, managing – out of deference to the seriousness of the situation - not to laugh at the sheer irony of the request. "I do have some experience in that department."

**Whistler's car**

**Church Parking lot.**

Xander's eyes blinked open slowly, jarred from an otherwise pleasant dream by the unpleasant realities of his waking life. Presented with an unfamiliar sight, his eyes darted rapidly about in confusion, disoriented from the lingering effects of the blast. Though still in the throes of semi-consciousness, he was nonetheless acutely aware of two things, the first being that he was no longer eating asphalt in the school parking lot, the second that the cheap vinyl seat beneath him was badly in need of restoration, an observation borne out by the sharp metal spring intimately acquainting itself with his posterior. In due course his eyes fell upon the familiar figure perched behind the steering wheel, leading him to seriously consider whether he had indeed survived the blast, or whether he'd died and gone to Hell. It may have been the utter revulsion he felt toward the driver, or more likely, the recognition that he was in a good deal of pain, but either way, the memory of his recent brush with death came rushing back.

Xander shifted uncomfortably in the back seat, trying, with little success, to find a comfortable position in an uncomfortable situation. His efforts ultimately attracted the attention of Whistler, who casually glanced up, studying Xander in the rear-view mirror.

"How ya feelin' kid?" he asked, more as a matter of courtesy than out of any genuine concern.

Xander silently cursed himself, pondering whether or not he'd actually been fortunate to survive the blast. "Let's just say I can empathize with Wile E. Coyote," he muttered. "Getting blown up sucks major ass."

Whistler glanced up into the rear-view mirror, affixing the injured twenty-something's reflection with a bemused look. "Technically, you weren't blown up. Your truck was."

Xander rolled his eyes, which only succeeded in making him dizzier, if not more nauseous. "Thanks for the reminder, Balance Boy."

"You don't have to get defensive," Whistler remarked, not quite managing to come off as offended. "I was only trying to help."

"You can help by taking me to a hospital. Or maybe you'd prefer I bleed to death in your backseat?"

Whistler shrugged. "Either way. No skin off my back."

"Your concern for my well being is overwhelming," Xander noted sarcastically.

"Quit complaining…. you'll live. Which is more than I can say for some people."

With that comment, Whistler had Xander's undivided attention, for what it was worth. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let's just say there was an incident at the librarian's house."

Xander rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the breaking news, Tom Brokaw. What of it?"

"And, it was nothing your little Wicca friend couldn't handle. The little firecracker racked up a pretty impressive body count, even by local standards."

"Willow killed someone?" Xander asked with obvious concern, wary of what had transpired the last time she had done so.

"Four someone's, to be precise. But in her defense, they were trying to kill her, so in a karmic sense, it all balances out."

"But she's okay? Right? Willow and the others?"

"They'll survive," Whistler conceded. "Nothing a little magic couldn't fix." Whistler paused a moment before stating the next part. "Though there may be a teensy problem."

Xander hesitated a second before asking the obvious. He couldn't help but suspect that a "teensy problem" constituted the end of the world.

"And that would be…?"

"A minor setback," Whistler confidently assured him, to little effect. "It appears that the bad guys have gotten their grubby little hands on the Key."

"They have Dawn?" Xander bellowed, inadvertently attracting the attention of a few random pedestrians. He softened his voice…slightly. "How in the hell could you let that happen?"

"I'm a Balance Demon, not a bodyguard," Whistler reminded him. "Her continued well-being is the Slayer's concern."

"And where the hell was Buffy when this happened?"

"Don't blame her, kid. She has her own problems at the present, if you get my drift."

Knowing what Whistler had implied, Xander leaned forward in the back seat, staring the demon down, unblinking, his own pain forgotten for the moment. "I'm having a very bad day, Whistler," he remarked evenly, mostly for the demon's benefit. "Believe me when I say that. So if you have any intention of telling me that Buffy's dead, then just do it and be done with it. You crack another joke about it, and I swear to whatever god there is that I will rip out your lungs and shove them up your immortal ass."

Whistler cringed, mindful of a similar threat once made by the Slayer in question. "Easy on the imagery, kid. It's only temporary. She'll be good as new – better even – in a few hours."

Xander considered that for a moment, then slowly settled back into his seat, consciously forcing himself to calm down. "So it's true then," he admitted to himself. "The prophecy…. her resurrection…. everything?"

Whistler raised an eyebrow. "Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, Harris."

Xander ignored him. "So what's our next step?

"There is no 'our' next step, kid. You and I are just along for the ride. So sit back, relax, and try not to bleed on the upholstery."

"What about Dawn?"

"She's not in any immediate danger," Whistler lied. "They need her in one piece. So she's safe – relatively speaking – until the big bad's ready to make its move."

"And then?"

"And then we call in the cavalry, sound the charge, and the good guys ride in with guns blazing to save the day. After which we all live happily ever after. Well, some of us anyway."

"Nice bedtime story," Xander cracked. "You should write children's books."

"No he shouldn't," advised a third voice, as Danyael hopped into the front passenger seat, clutching a small metal case in his left hand. "He'd screw up the next generation even worse than they already are."

"It's great to be appreciated," Whistler noted without any apparent enthusiasm. He cocked an eye at Danyael. "You get what you needed?"

"More or less," the one-time angel conceded. "Just remind me to apologize to that poor priest."

Whistler turned over the engine, putting the car in gear. "The priest, huh? You do realize you're going to hell when this all over?"

Danyael smiled darkly. "Not to worry. When this is over, hell just may save us all the trip."

**Willy's Place**

The two men stood quietly, gazing down at the still form sprawled out on the cold concrete floor below. To the uneducated eye, the object of their attention might have merely been passed out - as frequenters of Willy's establishment were wont to do - were it not for the unmistakable puddle of blood pooling beneath her body. Regardless, they both knew better. They had seen death up-close and personal, far more often than both cared to admit, and more often than not dealt by their own hands. Even so, that didn't make this any easier.

As a matter of course, they'd heard the gunshot. They'd also witnessed the gutless bastard fleeing out the front door, just moments after murdering his eldest daughter in cold blood. Lesser men than they might have given into temptation and ended the cocksucker right there and then, but they were professionals above all else, and so had the added benefit of training and experience working for them. Still, the urge had been there, just the same.

The younger of the two removed his sunglasses, glancing beyond the polished wood bar to the cowering bartender seated beyond. "How long?" he asked tersely, though he already knew the answer.

"I-I don't know, man," Willy stammered. "Five – ten minutes?"

The man replaced his shades, turning back to his counterpart. "Get the truck," he ordered, though technically he was outranked. The older man nodded, leaving the bar without a single word. The younger man then turned back to the bartender. "You're Willy?"

The bartender nodded meekly.

"Do you know who I am?"

He shook his head. "FBI? CIA?" Willy lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "IRS?"

"Wrong on all counts," the man asserted. "We're not with the government. We're not with anybody. In fact, we were never even here, and none of this ever happened." He paused to let his words sink in. "Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

Willy nodded again. The picture was pretty damn clear, even to a slow learner such as he.

"Very good, Willy. Now, I need you to do something else for me. Can you do that?"

Willy's eyes darted about nervously, avoiding the other man's gaze. "Sure thing pal, whatever you say."

"We're going to be taking the girl with us. You do not need to ask why, and I wouldn't recommend you do so. What you _will_ do is clean up this mess; wipe away the blood, wipe away any trace that Buffy Summers was ever here. When you're done, you will call a Detective Martinez and arrange for Rupert Giles and his associates to meet us at this address." He produced from his pocket a small card bearing a local address, which he handed to Willy. "I believe you know the policeman's number?"

"Yeah," Willy admitted, not bothering to ask how the man knew that.

"Good. You do exactly as I've said, and God willing, you'll never see me again. Get any cute ideas, and you'll get to know me very well."

**Outskirts of Sunnydale**

The column rumbled down both lanes of the freshly paved highway, leaving in its wake miles of chewed up asphalt, along with more than a few bewildered motorists. As far as the public knew, the armored force was composed of units of the California Army National Guard, though interspersed among the few actual Guardsmen were a large number of more specialized outfits, including select members of the highly specialized 30th WMD Civil Support Team, as well as hand-picked Special Forces and CIA paramilitary operatives, the latter two groups gleaned largely from the ranks of SEAL Team 6 and Delta Force, with a few Army Rangers thrown in for flavor. To a man, they knew the basics regarding the nature of the mission, though some among their number knew more than others. In time, they would all come to know the truth, provided they survived that long.

Their mission was technically legal, after a fashion. Having federalized the CNG, the President, at the advice of his senior advisors, the Vice President, and the JCS, had proceeded to order troops into Sunnydale, ostensibly in response to the alleged string of terrorist attacks plaguing Los Angeles. In time, the public at-large would come to know the truth, or at the very least, whatever watered-down facsimile the federal government could get them to accept. But for now it was necessary to maintain the illusion that the country was under terrorist attack, by an enemy John Q. Citizen knew and understood, if not feared.

Out of deference to the local population, the few main battle tanks in their TO&E had been loaded onto flatbed trailers for the short trip from Fort Resolve to downtown Sunnydale, while the lighter Bradleys and Stryker assault vehicles traveled under their own power. Even at the relatively slow speed of 40 mph, the cumbersome convoy quickly covered the distance, the leading elements appearing in the residential outskirts of Sunnydale as the late afternoon sun began to dip in the sky.


	23. Things to do in Sunnydale

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Summary:_ Alternate version of season 7. The real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the entire human race.

_Disclaimer:_ If I owned BTVS, I'd be sitting on my ass, raking in the syndication fees and royalties.

_Spoilers:_ (BTVS) Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out, rewrite, or outright ignore certain unsavory aspects. Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3.

_Rating: _R, for violence and strong language.

_Feedback:_ I have low self-esteem. Throw me a bone.

_Notes_: What can I say? I may eventually finish this story. I may also win the Nobel Peace Prize. Call it equal odds.

_Dedication_: Not so much a dedication as an apology. To my fellow countrymen, I ask your forgiveness. I recently spent some time in Europe, and rest assured, I've set back international relations at least 200 years. But hey…the French had it coming.

Words of Wisdom "Maturity means wanting to go back in time for the express purpose of kicking your own ass."-- Unknown

* * *

**Chapter 23: "Things to do in Sunnydale When You're Dead"**

The small convoy motored swiftly through the nearly deserted streets of Sunnydale, ignoring the posted speed limits, as well as any other inconvenient traffic signs they happened to encounter. That the streets were empty came as little surprise. The rumors had spread like wildfire, one more outrageous than the last, but with one common thread among them: Trouble was coming, and coming fast. For that reason, coupled with the last remaining vestiges of common sense among the populace, the vast majority of Sunnydale denizens had either already fled, or waited beyond locked doors, glued to their television sets as the drama unfolded around them. Already there was talk that terrorist attacks had spilled over into Sunnydale, a theory seemingly borne out by the flaming wreck in the faculty parking lot at SHS, as well as the massive influx of State and Federal law enforcement personnel. For their part, Giles and co. had a leg up on the rest of Sunnydale. They knew more or less what was happening, even if they didn't yet have the complete picture. To a man, they weren't sure if that was better, or worse.

The call that precipitated this little excursion had come directly to Detective Martinez. None of the Scooby gang knew with whom it originated, or even where they were going for that matter. They knew only what Martinez had told them, and that was precious little.

The good detective led off in his unmarked sedan, with Giles riding shotgun. Wesley and Willow followed close behind in his Explorer, their bodies separated by only a matter of inches, their thoughts a world apart. Willow, for the most part, was preoccupied with concern for Dawn, the girl who'd become her surrogate little sister, and whether or not she had any real chance of surviving the day. Wes, the more mercenary – pragmatic was the word he preferred- of the two, found his thoughts tending a little closer to the here and now, namely to the young woman in the passenger seat, and her present state of mind. He couldn't tell what was going on inside her head, and wasn't sure he wanted to in any case. But he could see the external changes, and in all fairness, it was hard not stare.

It wasn't as though he hadn't heard the stories. Wesley was just about as familiar with the misadventures of "Bad" Willow as were any of the other Scoobies – and he did consider himself an honorary member of the Scoobies, popular opinion be damned – even if he hadn't actually witnessed them firsthand. But then, the stories hadn't really done the girl justice. Not by a long shot.

Willow's trademark red hair had undergone a radical transformation, her otherwise tame locks morphing into a wild mane of jet-black tresses, woven intermittently with inexplicable streaks of the purest white. Her inquisitive eyes, normally distinguishable by an ever-present sparkle, were lost in a sea of sheer blackness. And the changes did not stop there. The girl's normally pasty skin appeared to have achieved near translucence, though that may just have been a function of the contrast with the darker tones of her hair. It was hard to tell. But as striking as they were, the physical changes paled in comparison to the changes that lay beneath. Gone was the timid redhead that Wesley had come to, if not adore, then at least admire. What remained was something entirely different, yet completely Willow-esque.

The girl had always harbored an innate degree of power –all natural practitioners of the so-called black arts did – though in her case it had remained largely suppressed. In that regard the rules of witchcraft were little removed from those of physics. In both, the application of an outside force was required to set events in motion, in this instance the introduction of a combination of grief and rage. As it had been with Tara's death, today's events had triggered a reaction between the rawest of human emotions and the unbridled power of elemental magicks. In both cases, the results had been similarly spectacular, if not nearly identical in their end. And yet, there was one striking difference; one that Wesley, with his own self-imputed power of observation, had not yet managed to discern with any degree of confidence, even if he rightly suspected it.

"You know, in polite circles people don't stare," Willow reminded the one-time Watcher, jarring him from his reverie without moving her gaze from the passenger side window. "Especially in the circle where the one you're staring at just saved your tweed but."

Wesley turned his attention back to the road ahead, hands tensing on the steering wheel, embarrassed that he'd allowed himself to forget with whom he was dealing. _So much for the keen powers of observation. _"Sorry," he offered instinctively. "I didn't mean to appear ungrateful. It's just that…. well… I mean…the new look…. it takes some getting used to."

Her head turned at the comment, grasping the underlying insinuation. "I'm not evil," she declared matter-of-factly, eyeing the man dubiously.

Wesley was taken aback by her intuitiveness. "I wasn't suggesting…."

"Bullshit," Willow countered, surprising even herself with the uncharacteristic vulgarity. "You have that, 'Oh gee: Willow's gone all black hair and veiny and she's killing people so she must be evil' look. I know that look." _And I would know if I was evil…wouldn't I?_

"I do not think you're evil," Wesley insisted, making a hard left to follow Martinez. "Your 'black hair and veiny' appearance notwithstanding. As for the killing part, well, I'm not likely to lose any sleep over the death of a few ethically challenged mercenaries, and neither should you."

"Damn skippy," Willow concurred, gripping the armrest for support as the truck momentarily lost traction, skidding to the right.

"Besides," Wesley added cautiously, calmly regaining control of the truck and accelerating to close the gap with the lead car, "black seems to work for you."

"I hear it's the new brown," Willow replied glibly. "And besides, it's not like I can really control this thing…just kinda happens, you know?"

"But you still feel guilty." It wasn't a question.

Willow bristled at that. "Is this the part where you tell me you know it feels? 'Cuz you can save your breath if that's where you're going with this. "

"I don't hope to presume anything," Wesley qualified, hoping she could appreciate his attempt at empathy. "It's just that if our roles were reversed, I know I would probably feel a little conflicted. It's a natural reaction, bad guys or no."

Willow almost laughed, but not at Wesley. "Yeah. That's the funny thing about guilt: No matter what you do, no matter how you rationalize your actions, it never really helps. I don't know, maybe it's a Jewish thing," she surmised. "You know, the whole spiritual guilt trip."

Wesley ignored the self-deprecating attempt at humor. "For what it's worth, I understand."

Willow was caught off guard by that, surprised both at his admission, and the apparent audacity in his claim. "Is this your way of telling me you were a Jewish Wicca in a previously life?"

"You think you're the only who's ever killed a person?"

"You mean you….", she started briefly, before catching herself. "Right. I almost forgot."

"I've known that man for since before I became a Watcher," Wesley confessed. "We trained together at the Academy. I was the best man at his wedding, saw his first child baptized. And I didn't hesitate to pull the trigger when I had to. And neither did you, so to speak. That doesn't make you evil; it doesn't make you one of the bad guys. You did what you had to do, regardless of the personal cost. That makes you a hero in my book."

"Some hero," Willow countered. "I couldn't even protect Dawn from a washed-up vampire."

"You're not alone in that regard," Wesley allowed. "Rest assured we'll have the opportunity to redeem ourselves. That much I promise you."

Willow looked at him suspiciously. "What do you know that I don't?"

The convoy pulled up to a traffic light, Martinez and Giles pulling up a few feet behind a large white cargo van, the first vehicle they'd seen in over five minutes. Wesley followed suit, coming to a stop just inches from the Crown Victoria. "Let's just say I have it on good authority that whatever they're planning for Dawn isn't going down just yet."

"In other words," Willow sagely interpreted, "you know a guy who knows a guy."

Wesley shrugged. "More like I know an empath who knows a guy who sometimes talks to a demon who just happens to be the close personal friend of a.certain clairvoyant."

For the first in hours, Willow smiled. "And Giles said you didn't have any friends."

* * *

The lead elements of another, slightly larger convoy entered the Sunnydale City limits from the opposite direction, slowing as they did so. The intel briefing had predicted that they would face little, if any, initial opposition from any of the population, human or otherwise. There had been a few unconfirmed reports filtering in, including a suspected car bombing, but nothing to merit significant changes to their operational orders. Still, they were taking few chances. Rounds had been chambered, machineguns trained out in all directions in search of potential targets, and several hundred sets of eyes on full alert, scanning, what for many, was familiar terrain. 

They rumbled toward the business district, smaller recon and MP elements breaking off from the main body in a graceful mechanized ballet. The lack of traffic here was a godsend they had not anticipated. While none were especially keen to be deployed into a civilian population center, at least interference from the civilian populace would be kept to a minimum. And that was best for all concerned.

The lead recon element had entered the town ahead of the main body of the convoy, heading past the high school on their way to City Hall. A Lieutenant in the lead HUMVEE observed what appeared to be the burned-out frame of a sport utility vehicle in the main parking lot, surrounded by two SPD squad cars and a lot of yellow tape. This was radioed to HQ in due course, and an MP detachment dispatched to investigate and secure the area from the civilian authorities. The three vehicles accelerated, within a mile of their objective, and a full minute ahead of schedule. Up ahead, the first civilian vehicles came into view.

* * *

_Great," Buffy bemoaned, surveying the recognizable, yet altogether eerie surroundings, "high school. That settles it…. I'm officially in hell." She had not been anticipating a response._

"_I should hope not," enjoined a familiar voice, floating down from somewhere in the stacks above. The recently departed Slayer spun her seat around, eyes automatically locking on a most unbelievable sight. Overcome with emotion, Buffy opened her mouth to speak, but managed to choke out only a monosyllabic response._

"_Mom?"_

Buffy stared in shock as her mother's form fully emerged from the library stacks, looking remarkably well preserved for one who'd been in the grave going on two years now. She moved swiftly, gracefully, moving in silence as she traversed the book-laden shelves. Coming to a halt just short of the safety railing, she gazed down on her daughter, smiling warmly, as though nothing had ever happened to preclude her doing so.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost, sweetheart."

"Mom?" the stunned Slayer repeated, trying desperately to come to grips with whatever the hell was going on, and failing miserably. "You…I mean you're…I saw you…you're dead," she finally managed.

"We prefer 'living impaired'," her mother corrected her, with a lopsided grin. "Dead just seems so…final."

Buffy instinctually tried to stand, but found her legs unwilling to accommodate her. Gripping both arms of the chair, she pushed herself into what passed for a standing position. She again opened her mouth to speak, trying to find the right words as a million different emotions swirled through her mind. She had so many questions, so many things she wanted – needed – to say. But the sheer emotional magnitude of the moment overwhelmed her, making any attempt at communicating her feelings impossible. No matter, for her mother took care of that for her.

In an instant, Joyce Summers had descended the staircase, sweeping her eldest daughter into her embrace, clutching the now sobbing girl tight to her chest, the young woman's tears spilling onto her face, evidence of a love that spanned even the gulf between life and death. She kissed Buffy gently on the cheek, wishing for all the world that she had more time; that this moment could last for all eternity, but knowing all the while what was to be, and what never could. She allowed herself a few more seconds, time for one hug, a chance to smooth the girl's ruffled hair one last time, to perform one last motherly duty, wiping the tears from her beloved daughter's eyes, all the while reassuring her that it would all be ok, though she herself entertained her own doubts. Finally, with more strength than she'd known she possessed, Joyce Summers broke the embrace, reluctantly disengaging from the girl who she'd come to love more than life itself.

Startled, Buffy tried to protest, only to be silenced as Joyce gently placed a finger to her lips.

"You don't need to say anything, Buffy," Joyce reassured her. I know. I've always known. And I want you to know that I'm okay. There's no pain, no loneliness, and no regrets. There's only peace, peace and a sense of completeness."

"But I don't…I don't understand. Am I… If you're here, then I must be…."

Joyce smiled at her, shaking her head in the most motherly of fashions. "It doesn't matter right now, Buffy. Just know that I love you, and I love Dawn, and I always will. And I am so proud of both of you. Even death can't change that. I know there are things that you want to say, questions you need answered. And in time, they will be. But for now I need you to be strong. I have to leave you again, Buffy. I don't want to, and I know you won't understand, but there's no other way."

Buffy didn't understand. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes, and for a brief moment she was again that five-year-old girl, pleading with her mother to take her along to work. _God, please don't let her leave me again. I can't bear it. _"I want to go with you..."

Joyce almost reached out for her daughter, but knew that if she did so, she would never be able to let go again. "Do you remember the promise you made to me in the hospital?" _As if she could forget._

Buffy nodded. "I remember," she recalled somberly.

"Dawn needs you now more than ever, Buffy," Joyce implored. "She's in danger. You must go to her, you must do what is necessary to protect her, to protect the world."

"How can I do that? How can I fight what's meant to happen? I'm not that strong." _I'm not like you._

Joyce bowed her head for a brief moment, unable to look her daughter in the eye, terrified of what her daughter would think. She'd always known this day would come, had practiced countless times telling her daughter the truth, but could never actually bring herself to do so. "There is something you must know, Buffy." She looked up into her daughter's plaintive eyes, determined to do this right. "I've always known that you were special, that you were destined for great things. I know every mother probably feels this way, but with you it's different, and it has nothing to do with you being the Slayer, or even being my daughter, for that matter." Unable to resist the temptation, she reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her daughter's face. "I wasn't a perfect person, Buffy. I had my own doubts, my own shortcomings. And when my marriage to Hank fell apart, it wasn't just because of his unfaithfulness. My own guilt played a part in it."

"What are you saying?" Buffy asked hesitantly, unwilling to see what her mother was alluding to.

"It only happened once," Joyce hedged, as much to assuage her own guilt as to make the truth more palatable to her daughter. "Please understand. Even before you were born, I knew about Hank's infidelity. I could never admit it to myself, but deep down, I knew what was going on. I was angry, resentful at him for betraying me. And I was lonely."

Buffy fell silent, tying to digest what her mother was telling her, and to make sense of what was happening. "Who was he?" she implored in a whisper, unable to see where this was ultimately leading. "Do I…. do I know him?"

Joyce answered the question with a shake of the head. "No sweetheart. You don't know him. And neither did I. Not really."

"You mean you just…. with some man you hardly knew?"

If Joyce were capable of crying, she would have done so. The tone of Buffy's voice, the accusation in her eyes, were enough to break anyone's heart. God knew she didn't want to cause her daughter any more grief. Buffy's life was difficult enough without any maternally inspired angst, especially inflicted from beyond the grave. But she'd waited too long as it was, and time, after all, was of the essence. "Please, Buffy. I know this must be difficult for you, but there is more to it. There's something you must accept, something you must come to terms with, or else all of this will have been for nothing."

Buffy pulled away, shocked and angered at her mother's admission. "Don't," she hissed. "Don't you dare do this to me!"

"Buffy, please," Joyce pleaded, "I wish there was another way, but there isn't. You have to know. You have to know the truth."

"No!" Buffy insisted, "I won't let you do this. Not now. Not like this."

"Please, honey. I know this is hard…"

"Do you?" Buffy asked acidly. "Do you have any idea how this feels? I adored you. I worshipped the ground you walked on. God, I felt sorry for you. When I wasn't blaming myself for the divorce, I was blaming dad. And all this time…"

The raw truth cut deeper than any blade could have. "He's not your father."

Buffy stopped cold at that revelation, the rage and indignation she'd felt only moments before replaced by an incredulous shock, her entire being shaken to the core by a few simple words. She shook her head, trying to deny what now seemed so clear, desperately needing to hold on to one of the few remaining illusions of a normal life. The coldness in her own voice shocked her. "You're lying."

Had it not already done so, Joyce's heart would have stopped beating then and there. In that regard, death was an odd blessing. She shook her head somberly. "I wish to God I were Buffy. I wish to God that Hank were your father, that you weren't the Slayer, that you were just a normal girl with selfish concerns. But that wasn't meant to be. When I told you that I knew you were special, that you were destined for great things, it wasn't just maternal pride on my part. I knew because of what you were; because of where you came from."

The emotional roller coaster continued for Buffy, coming full circle. Doubt had given way to joy, joy had yielded to confusion, confusion to anger, and finally back to confusion. "I'm not special; I'm just a person. I'm not the slayer, not a warrior, not anything. I don't even know who I am…who I was."

Joyce tried to smile, a difficult endeavor given the circumstances. "You were never 'just' anything, Buffy. Even before you were the Slayer, before you saved the world for the first time, you were so much more. You were a gift, not just to me, but to the entire world."

Buffy wouldn't, or couldn't, accept that. "You're wrong," she shot back. "My gift was death. That's what they told me. That's what I was here for. I was supposed to die to save the world. And I did. But they wouldn't let it go at that. They weren't finished with me. I died, and they brought me back, again and again. It _never_ stops. It never ends. So tell me now about my destiny. Tell me who I am, tell me what I am, 'cause I really want to know!"

Buffy's mother shook her head again, wishing she'd been more up-front with her daughter, even as she felt her purchase on this realm begin to slip. She addressed her daughter one last time, her physical form quickly fading from the ethereal plane, along with the consciousness that was Joyce Summers. "I'm afraid that it doesn't work that way, sweetheart. I don't have all the answers, and even if I did, I'm not sure I would understand it myself. I can only tell you this: Whatever your doubts, whatever your misgivings, you must accept that you were brought into the world for a reason, that whatever that reason is, you have not yet fulfilled your destiny. You have more to give to this world. You must trust in that. You must trust in me. For all of our sakes."

No sooner had the words left Joyce's lips than she too had gone. One moment she was there, both in body and spirit; the next she had vanished, leaving behind only a spectral echo, a phantasmagoric image that too, soon wavered and faded to nothingness. Buffy stood mute, her mouth agape, eyes wide, staring at the space that until a few seconds ago had been occupied by her mother. She was still angry, still hurt, but those emotions were tempered by the guilt she felt toward her behavior, and the lingering uncertainty regarding her true nature. She knew, of course, that her mother loved her, and would understand her daughter's reaction, even if Joyce were initially hurt by her words. Of that much she was certain. What she wasn't sure of – indeed, what she knew next to nothing about, other than a few tidbits she'd gleaned from skimming Giles' Watcher journals – were her true origins. Ever since she'd come to terms with being the Slayer, Buffy had found comfort in the knowledge that while special, she was still human. When things had gone bad, that basic tenet of faith had been her true north, her rock of Gibraltar. She'd always had that truth to cling to, to connect her to the world when she felt her herself slipping away. But now even that veneer of normality had been stripped away, confirming the fears she'd confessed so openly to Xander earlier that day. It all boiled down to one basic question: _If I'm not human, what am I?_

She hadn't realized she'd been thinking aloud.

"That's the $64,000 question, now isn't it kid?" The voice was vaguely familiar, the sensation of her skin crawling in response to it even more so. She uttered his name even before turning to face him.

"Whistler."

"Been a while, kiddo. It's good to see you again."

Buffy didn't share the sentiment. "Wish I could say the same."

_Some things just never changed_. "You figure it out yet?" the Balance demon asked, catching the ex-Slayer off guard.

"Figure what out?"

"You think you know what you are…what's to come?"

"I haven't even begun," Buffy finished, growling to her herself. "I know the game, Whistler. I've heard the company slogan. And, in case you've forgotten, I don't do prophetic, so cut to the goddamn chase already. Why are you here?"

"You're asking the wrong question, Summers. Why I'm here is irrelevant to your present situation. The question you need to be asking yourself is, why are you here?"

"Why don't you just tell me and save us both the trouble?"

Whistler shook his head. "Not how the game's played, kid. You of all people should have learned that by now."

"Guess I'm just stubborn that way," Buffy lamented. "But then, if I recall, I never asked for any of this in the first place."

"You could always walk away," Whistler suggested. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"And they'd leave me alone? Just like that? They'd find someone else to save the world?"

Whistler shrugged. "Maybe; maybe not. Either way, what's it to you? Like you just said, you never asked for this."

"You're right, Whistler. I never asked for it. I never asked to be the Slayer. But I didn't really have any choice in the matter. It was my birthright, remember? My destiny?"

"Not anymore. Not ever really; at least, not _just_." He looked around the library for a moment, as if to confirm they were alone. "Let me ask you something. Do you know why the Slayer exists?"

She'd thought that much was obvious. "To fight evil. To protect those who can't protect themselves," Buffy answered, self assuredly.

"Do you ever win?" Whistler posited.

"Always." _Well, most of the time._

"But there's still evil. You may win the battle, but you don't win the war. Right?"

Buffy looked confused. "I don't think it's just about winning….". She stopped in mid thought, on the verge of comprehending something she implicitly knew was important. "It was never about winning…was it?

Whistler shook his head "The Slayer was never anything more than a tool of a higher power. A powerful and useful tool to be sure, but a tool nonetheless. We could have sent someone else, another warrior – hell, even a certain brooding vampire might have been able to fight the battles. And who knows, maybe he could even have done as well as you."

Buffy didn't get it all. "Then why? Why go through the motions? Why fight a war that can't ever be won, why the charade?"

"It wasn't a charade, kid. When you get down to it, evil is an elemental force. It's not like some disease that you can eradicate. Without darkness, there can be no light. Without evil, there is no good. Good needs evil to remind it what is right and wrong, to remind the heroes why they fight. "

"So why bother? Why mess with the balance at all? Why not just let the two forces have it out and be done with it? Why do you need Slayer?"

"The world's not as simple as we'd like it to be. The world…it doesn't just exist. It came from something. It means something. You think it's all some cosmic accident that we're all here? It was all part of the plan, Summers. Everything and everyone. Good and evil; human and demon. It's all part of the big picture."

"You didn't answer the question," Buffy pointed out, and reasonably so.

Whistler was getting to that. "You know the difference between destiny and fate?"

Buffy thought she did. "There's no such thing as fate."

"That's where you're wrong, kid. Fate does exist, just not the way most people think of it. It's not some kind of manifest destiny; it's something we all choose for ourselves, something we arrive at through our own actions."

"And destiny?"

"Destiny's the path that leads you there. That is, if you choose to accept it."

"Not that I don't appreciate the philosophy lesson, but you still haven't answered my original question, " she pointed out.

"No, but you did," Whistler remarked. At her perplexed look he explained. "We know it ends, the fate of the world, that is. Book of Revelations…. trumpets sounding…. the bowl judgments…. the four horsemen…. badness ensues. That was all determined a long time ago, by someone with a lot more juice than either you or I. But each and every one of us has our own potential destiny, our own part to play. That's where free will comes in. The end of the earth isn't the end. Not by a long shot. And the battle that's fought everyday on earth? It's just a small part of the war being waged out on a much larger scale, on many different levels. The Slayer fights the evil on earth, fights for the humans, to give them the chance to determine their own fate. She doesn't fight to save them; she can never save them all. She gives them hope, shows them the way. Whether they follow that path is their choice."

"And exactly who am I supposed to have given hope to? Nobody knew who I was, what I did. The Slayer works in secrecy, remember."

"You didn't. Not completely. You shared your life with the people you cared about."

Buffy grunted. "A whole lotta good that did them."

"You underestimate yourself. You underestimate them."

"All I did was cause them grief. They would have better off if they never met me."

"That's where you're wrong, kid. You think that by bringing them into your life, you did them a disservice. You think you made their lives worse? Nothing could be further from the truth. Think about it: You don't honestly believe that people are better off living their lives in blissful ignorance of the world around them, do you? No, you were put on the earth to make a difference, and you did that. You weren't like the others before you; you opened yourself up. You let down your guard, and let others in. You showed them a new way to live, a new way to fight. You didn't show them their destiny, you were their destiny."

And just like that, it became perfectly clear. "It was a test," Buffy whispered. "It was all a test."

Whistler smiled, feeling something akin to pride. "Life is a test, kiddo. Some pass, some fail. Fortunately for us, you passed with flying colors."

"And now that I'm no longer the Slayer? What am I? Who do I fight for now?"

_Finally, the kid asks the right question. _"Now you make a choice. You decide to take it to the next level – to fully accept you birthright and continue the fight – or you lay down your sword, and accept your reward."

"That's it then? That's all there is to it? I go back and fight, or I stay dead."

"It's never that simple, kid. Choices have consequences. You can hang it up, call it quits, and the Big Guy won't hold it against you. But you have to decide if it's worth the price."

"And If I decide I've had enough, will I…."

Whistler nodded. "You've already been there once. Call it a free pass."

"And my mother?"

"She'll be there waiting," Whistler confirmed. "Great lady, by the way. A real class act."

Buffy smiled at that. "The greatest mom ever. Someday I'll get to tell her that again."

The meaning behind her words didn't escape Whistler. "So you've made up your mind?"

She nodded in the affirmative. "Looks like."

_Good for you kid. _"Kinda figured you would."

"You're not gonna get all mushy on me, are you Whistler? I'd really hate to have to change my opinion of you."

"I'll try to hold back the tears, Summers. You do the same."

"It's a deal," she agreed. "So, how do we do this? Do I just click my heels together three times, or…"

"It's already taken care of," Whistler assured her. "All you have to do is open your eyes, and we'll take care of the rest." He fell uncharacteristically silent for a moment. "You know, there's one thing you haven't asked me yet."

"Actually," Buffy corrected him, "I did ask you. You never gave me an answer."

Whistler grinned conspiratorially. "Still wanna know?"

"Thanks, but I think I've got it covered."

The balance demon raised an eyebrow at that, enjoying a chuckle. "Do you now? You figured it out? You know what you are?"

Buffy closed her eyes, the corners of her lips curved upward in the beginnings of a smile. "Yeah, Whistler. I know what I am."

_I'm Buffy._

* * *

**Sunnydale Industrial Park**

It wasn't that Dawn was ungrateful for the temporary reprieve she received in the person of Lilah Morgan; it was just that her initial impression of the woman – combined with her better instincts -- left her wondering whether she would have been better off left to the mercy of Spike's devices. Through bloodied, bruised eyes the Slayer appraised the lawyer, seeing right through the thousand-dollar business suit and perfectly coiffed hair to the ugliness that lie beneath. It didn't take a genius to see the truth. The woman was in league with Spike. That made her one of the bad guys. Simple enough.

It was also fairly easy to discern why the woman had intervened to save her in the first place. They needed Dawn alive to open the Hellmouth. After all, it wouldn't do any good to destroy the key before you'd opened the lock. However, that left unanswered the question as to what exactly the required ritual entailed, and exactly how much Dawn would suffer as a result. For some reason, that little detail seemed extremely important right about now. The thought almost elicited a laugh from the battered Slayer, until she took into consideration the present condition of her ribs, and thought better of it. _God, _Dawn couldn't help but lament._ Some Slayer I am. William the Bloody and Wolfram and Hart's chief lawyer goon in the same room, and I'm on my knees, bleeding like a stuck pig, whatever the hell that means. _Despite the seriousness of the situation, Dawn felt her mind wandering back to something Xander had once told her, a few words that seemed all too appropriate to her present condition. "_I laugh in the face of danger, then hide 'til it goes away." _

_If only I had that option._

Dawn wanted to make a smartass comment, but wasn't in any hurry to incur Spike's wrath again, at least not while she was bound to the wall, and so she waited for Lilah to speak first.

"Hello, Dawn," the lawyer greeted her breezily, a broad, fake smile on her face, as if addressing a potential client or job recruit. "I'm Lilah Morgan. You might have heard of me."

_Oh hell, _thought Dawn. _They're gonna kill me anyway. Might as well get in a few verbal jabs, since I can't do the physical kind. _Dawn did her best to return the favor, though the effect might have been lost beneath all the bruising. "You'll forgive me if I don't stand up and shake your hand, Lilah. Spike here was in the mood for bondage fun. And for the record, I have heard of you."

"Good things, I presume?" Lilah asked, ever the narcissist.

Dawn shrugged as much as her constraints would allow, doing her best to ignore the resulting pain in her arms and shoulders. "I think Angel's exact words were 'stupid cunt'. Oh, and he also said you were a label whore and a bitch, though not necessarily in that order." Putting aside the possibility that Spike would resume her beating at any moment, Dawn flashed a brilliant smile at the offended lawyer, whose mouth stood agape, fuming in indignation. "Of course, that's just one opinion. I actually like your suit."


	24. Seeing the Forest for the Trees

_Author:_ Rabid Squirrel

_Title_: "Murphy's Law"

_Summary:_ Alternate version of season 7; the real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the entire human race.

_Disclaimer:_ In case there was ever any confusion, I'm not Joss Whedon, 20th Century Fox, or in any way associated with either.

_Spoilers:_ BTVS through season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out, rewrite, or outright ignore certain unsavory aspects. Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3.

_Rating: _R, for violence and strong language.

_Feedback:_ If anyone's had the patience to stick with this story: 1) Thank you; and 2) please give me feedback.

_Notes_: I think it's painfully obvious by now that this story is taking longer to finish than the painting of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Not that I'm comparing myself to Michelangelo; after all, I can neither paint nor sculpt. I'm just slow and uninspired.

_Dedication_: To 2007, and what it may bring . Happy New Year, everyone.

Words of Wisdom "_Democracy is two wolves and a lamb voting on what to have for lunch.  
Liberty is a well-armed lamb contesting the decision_" – Benjamin Franklin

**Chapter 24: "Seeing the Forest the Trees"**

Sunnydale Business District 

**Near City Hall**

In military parlance it's known as Situational Awareness, a measure of the degree of accuracy by which one's perception of their current environment reflects reality. It comprises the ability to identify, process, and comprehend the critical elements of information about what is happening to one with regards to the particular mission.

In layman's terms, it simply meant whether or not someone knew what the fuck was going on.

For Detective Martinez, it was a concept that would prove critical, and, in the final analysis, ultimately fatal. The lawman had been slow to react as the van's rear door swung open, not recognizing the danger for what it was. By the time his brain had processed what was happening, he'd accomplished little more than to fumble with his seatbelt, failing to release the catch, and in doing so, effectively sealing his fate.

Rupert Giles fared somewhat better.

Even as the initial burst of gunfire peppered Martinez's chest – ending the good Detective's career a full ten years shy of retirement – Giles, sans seatbelt, instinctively rolled forward, narrowly avoiding a similar fate as the gunman methodically shifted his fire to the passenger side of the car. The Englishman hit the floor just as the windshield gave up the ghost, the safety glass having done its job. As automatic fire shredded the austere interior of the Ford, Giles' hand cautiously snaked upward, groping for the shotgun secured to the passenger side dashboard, in the hopes that the late Detective hadn't been all that fastidious about actually securing it. As his hand closed around the stock of the Remington, the gunfire pouring into the car abated, the gunner shifting his attention – at least for the moment - from the police sedan to the SUV beyond.

Scrambling from the back of the van, the gunman jumped onto the hood of the bullet-riddled car, scanning the Explorer for any overt threats as his left hand slapped home a fresh clip, the muzzle of the MP5 never wavering far from its target. He knew with certainty that the cop in the lead car was dead, and the passenger, whom he'd seen go down, if not dead, was at least neutralized for the time being. The shooter's colleagues, even now exiting the van via the sliding side door, would ensure that the man joined his deceased buddy in due course. Secure in that knowledge, he leveled his weapon at the truck, the vehicle's high profile affording him an optimal line of sight, and a prime view of the targets within. As the truck's tires squealed into reverse, he depressed the trigger, unloading a lethal hail of bullets at nearly point-blank range.

**Warehouse District**

There was really no easy way to handle it. There were simply no protocols for something like this, no order of battle, not even a decent computer simulation. Up until now, everything had happened as a series of seemingly disjointed events, disparate actions woven into a common fabric only by the vague certainty of what was yet to come. But that was about to change. Things were about to become very clear. Time had run out, and the devil wanted his due.

All the while enemies plotted, allies converged, and people began to die, some for cause, others as casualties in the opening salvo of a new kind of war. Most knew little about what was happening, some knew more, and a few knew just about everything there was to know, even if they hadn't admitted as much to anyone else.

As fate would have it, the limited but growing ranks of the latter group happened to be on converging courses, three of them winding through the streets of Sunnydale in a dilapidated Chevy convertible, a fourth even now disembarking from a helicopter on the roof of a warehouse. There were more still to come, both human and not-so-human, destined to join the ranks of what was to become an army, an army neither in name nor number, but in deed and legend. These would soon find their way to the others, joining into a motley fellowship of crusaders whose heroic efforts, even if successful, would ever be known but to a few.

Sunnydale Business District 

**Near City Hall**

In contrast to the now-deceased detective, Wesley Wyndham-Price was well versed in the concept of situational awareness, even if it wasn't necessarily his forte. To wit, no sooner had their assailant's first rounds found their mark than Wesley had slammed the truck into reverse, gunning the engine in a desperate attempt to escape the ruthless ambush. Despite his best intentions, however, Wesley found his efforts frustrated by the fact that another van – a virtual twin to the first - had somehow managed to pull up behind them unnoticed, effectively cutting off their escape. The realization set in just as the Ford smashed into their bumper, throwing Wesley and Willow violently into the backrests of their leather seats, in the process unwittingly undermining the witch's abortive attempt at a protection spell. Fortunately for the both of them, there was one factor that their assailants hadn't anticipated.

That was the bullet-resistant glass, installed at Angel's insistence only 2 months earlier.

The bullets rained into the Lexan-reinforced Safe-T-Glass, visibly damaging the windshield, but failing to penetrate. This came as quite a surprise to the shooter – more so than to the occupants, who were surprised nonetheless - though his disbelief was short-lived. For that matter, so was he.

The members of the Recon team had watched in horror as the ambush unfolded before their eyes, the muzzle flashes and gunfire unmistakable even from a distance. None had ever experienced urban combat before, and none had ever expected to on what they considered their own home turf. With equal parts outrage and determination, the driver of each HUMVEE instinctively floored the throttle, whispering a silent prayer as he did so that their efforts would not be in vain.

The vehicles raced toward the intersection, toward the ambush unfolding on the crossroad directly ahead. As they closed to within fifty yards, establishing a clear line of fire, the gunner on the lead vehicle opened up with the mounted machine gun, decisively engaging a target he deemed a hostile, nearly cutting him in half with a fusillade of .50 caliber rounds. With no time to celebrate, he shifted fire toward the leading van and the men exiting the vehicle, laying down a healthy volume of suppressing fire, surmising correctly that the gentlemen sporting balaclavas and carrying submachine guns were in fact the bad guys. He didn't succeed in actually killing the two men approaching the unmarked police sedan – he knew instinctively it was a cop car; the cheap rims were always a dead giveaway – but he managed to force them to take cover, buying Rupert Giles the time he needed.

With the two hostiles pinned down by fire – one in front of the car, crouching partially beneath the van, ineffectively returning fire at the engaging army vehicles; the other on the passenger side, crouched by the tire well only feet from Giles - and the attackers vehicles now taking fire from the other 2 HUMVEES, the former librarian made his move. He knew by the paucity of submachine-gun fire that the first assailant was very likely dead, or at least probably wished he were, given the volume of fire the unknown machine gunner was spitting out. Giles also knew that at least two additional men were probably still out there, well armed, and in close proximity. He suspected that someone had come to his rescue, likely a military someone judging by the sound of heavy machine gun fire and unmuffled engines. But it was two other sounds that got his attention, and helped to confirm his mental picture of the situation. A metallic click outside the passenger door confirmed his former suspicion. The clipped voice emanating from a PA system confirmed the second. Grasping the unsecured – and fortuitously loaded – shotgun in his left hand, he manually unlocked the door, hoping the gunfire would conceal the sound, and pulled gently on the handle, but did not yet open the door. _Here we go, Ripper, _he steeled himself. _The cavalry may have come galloping over the hill, but the bloody Indians aren't following the script. _Completely on edge, he nonetheless managed to still himself for just a few more seconds, leveraging his above-average hearing to compensate for his lack of visual confirmation. Between gunshots came the sound of a scuff, definitely nearby, seemingly just outside the door. Holding his breath, Giles shoved the door outward, connecting with the would-be assassin's skull, sending him sprawling to the curb. Without reservation, Giles swung the shotgun in the man's direction, the expression on his face confirming the inevitability of what was to come. He pulled the trigger, and that was that.

Still gripping the shotgun, Giles cautiously exited the car, peering back over his right shoulder. He felt a brief yet powerful sense of relief when he saw two people moving about within Wesley's Explorer, and the smoking ruins of the Dodge van beyond. He quickly put that aside, mindful that there was still another enemy about, one who would have no compunction about killing Giles, or anyone else for that matter. Crouching low to the ground, Giles made his way toward the front of the Crown Victoria, inching along the front quarter panel, the shotgun pointing the way. He was vaguely aware that the gunfire had stopped, but did not read too much into it, for fear of making a misstep so close to safety.

Reaching the edge of the bumper, he peered slowly around the corner, the shotgun leading the way, half expecting to come face-to-face with the business end of an assault rifle. He found only another ruined van, an expanding pool of blood, and the earthly remains of another dead gunman, killed moments before by a soldier with a few well-placed shots from an M-16.

This round was over. The next was about to begin.

**Danyael's Loft**

Nemamiah had arrived first, the bruised and battered body of a nearly dead Slayer in tow. Though she was no longer in any immediate danger of dying, the girl's physical condition had caused him some initial degree of alarm, given the extent of her injuries, and his own limited ability to heal such wounds of the flesh. Time, coupled with the Slayer's own innate regenerative powers, would have eventually healed her, though not in time to be of any immediate use to him.

Of more immediate concern was her mental health.

Nemo was, to put it simply, a big-picture kind of guy. That only made sense, given that he was considered by the church to be the guardian angel of just causes. Not that any of that was true, at least in the strictest sense. There were angels, and there were saints, but such specific designations as guardian angels and patron saints were merely human constructs, beliefs of the church promulgated as truth. In reality, outside of the highest choirs, angels generally didn't serve specific roles, though there were some notable exceptions. By and large, they were interchangeable functionaries, existing to do God's bidding, whatever that may be. It was a harmless belief, really; a source of comfort to people in need of such things, and nothing more. That wasn't to say that Nemo didn't fit the billing. He was all about the just cause, and seldom met one he didn't champion, which is what brought him to Sunnydale in the first place.

However, the inclusion of the Slayer Faith in the unfolding conflict had disturbed him. The girl's very essence was conflicted; her desire to atone for her wrongs in direct opposition to the pain and uncertainty that had lead her down the path of darkness in the first place. He knew that in her heart she wanted to do right, to redeem herself in the eyes of the world, but could not leg go of the doubt that prevented her from fully doing so. It always boiled down to the human element, and that was what worried him. Humans were too unpredictable; literal slaves to their emotions. Their actions tended towards reflexive response, but were all-too often irrational or illogical. They would risk their lives for next to nothing, yet refuse to lift a finger when it really mattered. Capable of incredible selflessness and generosity one minute, they exhibited the basest cruelty the next. It was a paradox he could never fully reconcile, try as he might.

Of even greater concern was the disposition of Buffy Summers. Assuming things had gone according to prophecy – which they always did, after a fashion – then the girl was no longer just a Slayer. Her Slayer essence, and the attendant powers and abilities conferred therein by the Guardians, now resided in the Key. The power Buffy Summers would come to know was something else entirely.

Buffy's death had been a necessity. The human body, even one imbued with the power of a Slayer, simply could not endure the transformation while simultaneously sustaining life. And so certain events had been allowed to pass, even though their human allies had not understood, and had predictably balked at allowing the murder of a young woman when they saw it within their power to intervene. _Humans could be damn sentimental at times_, he mused, _even when the emotion worked against them_. But then, they hadn't exactly been privy to the whole story. Buffy Summers – Slayer, sister, guidance counselor, and one-time Double Meat Palace employee of the week – may have slipped the earthly bonds of the mortal coil, but Elizabeth Anne Summers was just beginning her journey. The truth, he knew, would be hard to accept; the responsibilities inherent in that acceptance, even more so. But he had faith in the girl. They all did. After all, it had been ordained, and no one, especially one of the loyal, would question that.

It would take some getting used to, he admitted to himself. The nephalim were a rare breed. Their genesis had been an abomination perpetrated by the Proud; a legacy of the rebellion that had rocked the very gates of Heaven. In time, they had been hunted down, one-by-one, and their numbers annihilated. But out of that blasphemy had emerged a new weapon of the righteous. Even as the human race had risen to prominence, battling the demon-breed for control of the earthly realm, a new line of the angelic/human hybrid had emerged, one borne of the fruits of others not unlike him. It had started, not surprisingly, by decree. To counter the machinations of the Proud, the Throne had set in motion a new line, a lineage of Seraphs, born of human flesh, to counter the threat of the underworld. At the same time, the Guardians had forged from the ranks of humanity a new champion, a warrior whose sole purpose was to fight an unrelenting battle against the vestiges of the demonic throng. The two lines existed independently, each waging their own war, neither cognizant of the other.

That is, until now.

Gently lying Faith's unconscious form on the leather sofa, Nemamiah permitted himself a rare smile. There was a certain sense of equilibrium to it, a symmetry whose intrinsic beauty could not be denied. Separately, the Seraphic nephalim and the Slayer had been potent weapons for the forces of good. Combined, they would become a nearly unstoppable force, an enduring symbol of the indomitable human will to survive. He only hoped it was enough.


End file.
